


Puppy

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brainwashing, Corporal Punishment, I blame the kink meme, I'm not a very good person, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Poor John, Spanking, a little bit of torture, dub con, fluff (sort of), grey!Sherlock, non con, people being kept as pets, stockholme syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:49:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 69,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't remember where he comes from or know how he ended up on the streets alone. But none of that matters. Moriarty decides that Sherlock needs a new pet and takes John home. Sherlock feeds him his favourite meal, fixes him a warm bed in front of the fireplace, soothes him when he wakes up screaming from nightmares... and oh yeah, slowly, lovingly turns him into his sexual pet.</p><p>Or at least, that was the plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> For a delicious [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=121549407#t121549407) on the BBC kink meme that I could not forget about even when I tried. Seriously, it's been two months and this will _not_ leave me alone. Writing this is an act of self preservation (and not, you know, revealing even more of my depravity and lack of shame).

He doesn't remember where he comes from.

John's life exists in the here and now, in the daily struggle to find a way to make it through to the next day on the streets in the middle of downtown London where no one else gives a damn whether he makes it or not. 

All he knows about himself is that he woke up in an alley with no shoes and a bad bruise on the side of his head a few months ago. His shoulder was aching something fierce and so was his leg, though that was a duller throb, like pain that muscles remember even when there’s no real reason behind it. That comes and goes depending on the day but his shoulder always hurts. He doesn't know what happened, why it looks like someone dug something out of his flesh with a knife, but then it doesn't really matter.

He's come to understand that knowing _why_ won't help, not in the long run. 

One of the lucky ones, a tall skinny bird had called him, a gummy smile on her face as she greets him, keeping her distance as always. Her name is Eva and she's the one who brought him 'round in the first place by splashing water on his face. He'd have frozen if it weren't for her and he feels a sense of gratitude to her even though she's warned him repeatedly that there's no such thing, not on the streets where everyone is on their own. Still, she always smiles whenever he comes to visit her cardboard box and sometimes she'll give him bits of information, warnings, and ways to keep himself from being driven crazy or locked up. She’s the one who told him flat out that it’s useless to hope that someone, somewhere, is worrying about him because if someone cared that much he wouldn't have been where he was in the first place. It makes sense, John thinks, words to live by.

She's the one who tells him about the Shadow and the Snake.

"There's two of 'em," she confides over a half-eaten biscuit. John had watched a mother tear the box of Hobnobs out of her screaming child's hand and chuck it in the bin; he'd rescued the slightly broken but perfectly edible biscuits and they were sweet. 

"Two of who?" he asks.

"Them. The Shadow and the Snake."

"The... what?" He looks at her, bemused, because even on the street the names sound ridiculous.

"Listen, boy! I'm telling you, you ever see one of 'em you run for it. The Shadow, he's tall and dark, see, but he's got them pale eyes that can see straight through you. Knows it all in just a look. They say he's got magic or that he's got extra senses. Me, I think he's a demon, the both o'em." She cackles and John can't be sure whether or not she's being serious. "He always knows where to find you if he wants you an' if you don't do what he says you don't come back."

The biscuit sticks in John's throat. He'd spit it out but he knows better than to waste food. "From where?"

Eva just shakes her head and crunches noisily. "And the Snake," she continues, "is even worse. He's small and he don't look like a threat, I tell you what. To see him one would think that even you could take him, Johnny. But he's mad, that one. Barmier than me, even!" She lets out a loud snort and grabs another biscuit. "They run London, the London that you and me live in, it's all theirs no matter what them straight-laced coppers say. So you heed my warning, Johnny. If you see them, you _run_."

Her words linger with John long after he bids her goodnight and hobbles off down the street. He wonders about them, the Shadow and the Snake. Eva had actually sounded frightened when she spoke of them and that was surprising. John had started to believe that there was nothing that scared her: she had seen it all and then some, young as she was. He resolves to heed her advice and keep an eye out for anyone that matches the description but he never does. The incident eventually fades from his mind entirely as winter begins to set in and he finds himself facing a whole new set of challenges caused by the plummeting temperatures and brisk winds.

Until one early December morning when he hears the sounds of fighting as he's passing by an alley. The sun isn’t long raised, still obscured by hazy grey clouds. John stops at the sound of shouting. He knows better, knows he should just keep walking, but he finds himself turning and striding into the alley, the pain in his leg temporarily assuaged. There're two men in the alley, one holding a gun, and they're huddled over a tall bloke who's curled up into a ball on the ground. His hands are tied behind his back and there's a bag over his head, rendering him helpless. John doesn't think twice before he moves to intercede with the next blow, moving with an ease that he didn’t know he’s capable of, that's foreign to him. The men are utterly shocked by his interference and they fight back but it's evident they're unskilled and unprepared and it's over embarrassingly quickly.

"Buncha idiots," John mutters, rubbing the knuckles of his left hand idly. It's a bloody good thing they didn't notice his injuries or that could've gone a different way. He drops to his knees and pulls the bag off of the bloke's head. Pale eyes, one nearly swollen shut, look up at him but John barely notices, too preoccupied with examining the injury on the side of his temple, fingers not quite touching. He stops in the next instant, confused, and pulls his hand away, wondering why he did that. He doesn't know a thing about wounds.

"You alright, mate?" he asks, deciding to write the oddity off. 

The man says nothing at first, just keeps staring. John looks at him oddly but he's met people with stranger peculiarities and the bloke has just been beaten so he can’t really blame him. He unties the bloke's wrists and then heaves himself to his feet, hearing a familiar creak at the knees. He has no idea how old he is but apparently he's getting too old for this. "Well, I'm off but good luck. I'd suggest you take off before they come back with more friends. Put some ice on that eye, yeah?" He turns and starts towards the exit, and he's nearly there when a deep voice stops him in his tracks.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Slowly John turns around and frowns. "I'm... sorry?"

"Afghanistan," the man says to himself with a nod. He gets up with an impossible sort of grace and steadies his shaking legs with a hand on the nearest alley wall. John notices that he's wearing rich leather gloves, far too costly and in good shape for someone who lives on the streets. Not homeless, then. The man smirks. "You're a soldier, or you used to be. I recognize the way you hold yourself, perhaps unconsciously by now, but it's still there, not to mention your fighting style is consistent with the army. You have a fading tan that suggests you've been back in London for about six months and the state of your clothing says you've been on the streets for approximately five and a half of them. Shot in the shoulder, I'm guessing, judging by the way you shielded that side of your body during the fight. Limp is purely psychosomatic, though, you only began limping when you were walking away. You were fine when you were charging into the alley in the first place, I could tell by your footsteps."

John just blinks at him. "Amazing." The word slips out before he can stop it. Because it is, really. He doesn't know this man and from the sound of it this man doesn't know him either. All of what he's said is generic things that anyone could notice but which so few people would. It's... "Extraordinary."

"Really?" He cocks his head and takes a closer look at John. "What did you say your name was?"

"Err, John." And then when he realizes that the man is waiting for John to elaborate, he adds in a sudden fit of honesty, "I don't... have a last name."

"Amnesia, of course," the man mutters, curling his lip. "You can't even tell me if I'm right - well, of course I'm right but there's always something." Apparently he loses interest in John because he takes a couple of long steps forward, striding past John who turns to follow his progress. He does stop again, though he doesn't turn around. He says, "It doesn't bother you. Not remembering, I mean."

"Not really," says John. If he's truly a soldier then that explains the nightmares he wakes up from on a regular basis, screaming his throat hoarse and bloody thankful that everyone around him is used to the racket. He'd rather not remember them if the dreams are about war.

"Interesting." With that parting remark the bloke steps out of the alley and instantly becomes a part of the crowd bustling by. Even when John hurries forward he can't spot the man. He's just gone, vanished, and if John didn't have a smarting bruise on his left cheek he'd give the whole incident up for a hallucination brought on by the cold. He's about to leave before those men do come back with friends when he spots something, back in the alley, and shuffles over to pick it up. It's a scarf, soft and worn and expensive, feeling like silk against his weathered hands. John tucks it in his pocket and goes on his way.

He keeps the scarf for a reason he can't really say, a reason beyond the fact that it's easily the nicest thing he now owns. He tells no one where he found it or about his meeting with the odd bloke, feeling that it's one of those things that's just a bit too peculiar to be shared. He starts walking by the alley every morning and every night, just to see if the bloke ever comes back to find his scarf, but there's never any sign of anyone. Not that John wants to give it back but it does seem like the right thing to do. Of course, he has no way of knowing that he'll be seeing the owner of the scarf soon - and that when he does he'll wish that he'd moved out of London that very day.


	2. Chapter 2

John is having one of his nightmares when the tip of the boot strikes him in the side. He lurches awake with a rough gasp, heart pounding and adrenaline surging, and only freezes when he realizes that he is literally face to face with a gun. The weapon is less than a foot away from his forehead and it’s definitely real, though he’s not sure how he knows this. His eyes slowly travel up the barrel to the hand that's holding the gun, and then further up to settle on a set of cold blue eyes framed by dark blond hair. The man stares back at him flatly, not moving an inch, and it's only the sound of a high-pitched laugh, more of a giggle really, that breaks their staring contest.

"Here you are, then. You people are dreadfully hard to track down.” Another man crowds up beside the blond. He's short and thin, wearing a suit that likely costs several thousand pounds, with dark hair and eyes. There's a smile on his face that John doesn't like. "Hello, John."

"Hello," John says cautiously when it becomes obvious that an answer is expected. He doesn’t know either of these men, he’s certain of that.

"It speaks!" The man crows as though John has done something particularly intelligent, clapping his hands. "I think this is the one, Sebby. Look, he's even got Sherlock's scarf."

A furious blush paints John's cheeks as he grabs the scarf, winding the material around his hands. He'd fallen asleep last night with it over his face in an extra bid for a little bit of warmth and the scent had been rich and vivid, painting his mind with memories of the man with the pale eyes. "Do you... do you know who owns this?" he says. "I was - it's mine, now, but if he wants it back he can have it."

"Hmm. I can see why Sherlock is so fascinated with you. You'll make a _lovely_ pet," says the man. "Come on, up you go."

"What?" John glances past them and spots a car idling at the kerb, sleek and long and black with tinted windows. An ugly feeling curls in his belly and it occurs to him that he might want to make a run for it but the short man’s eyes go cold like he knows exactly what John’s thinking.

“Don’t do it. I’d hate for Sebby to have to shoot you for not cooperating. Sherlock would be so disappointed and then I’d have to find him a new Christmas present and that would be just a pain. I do so hate shopping. Get up, Johnny. We’re going for a ride.”

Considering the gun, John has little choice but to agree, not unless he fancies getting shot. He gets to his feet and walks over to the car, which is a posh on the inside as the outside reflects, and slides across the seat, stuffing the scarf into his pocket. It’s the first time that he’s been in a car but some buried instinct propels him to automatically reach for a seatbelt and pull it across his chest and lap as both men get in after him. The blond sets the gun in his lap but he keeps a hand on it and his eyes on John.

“Who are you?” John asks. Has he made someone angry? Gotten in someone’s way? “Where are we going?”

“You don’t know who I am?” Now the dark-haired man looks really amused. “You poor little thing.”

And that’s all he says for the rest of the drive and John, not wanting to push his luck, falls into a restless silence, staring out the window. The car finally pulls up in front of a surprisingly average looking place in downtown London. John gets out slowly and glances up and down the street, searching for a way to escape, but the street is one long stretch of flats in both directions and there’s no one else around. If he runs he knows he’d be an easy target and he’s almost certain that the bloke with the gun won’t hesitate to use it. But at the same time everything in him rebels against going into that flat.

It’s fine, he tries to tell himself as they climb the stairs, it’s fine, you’ll find a way out later, whatever they want they can’t watch you all the time.

The inside of the flat is fairly large but looks a bit like a mad scientist’s laboratory with chemistry equipment all over the place. John spots a skewered foot hanging on the wall from which blood is steadily draining and feels both nauseous and horrified, through he makes an effort to hide it. The man smirks like he knows what John is thinking and calls out, “Sherly, sweetheart, I’ve brought you a present.”

“Jim, if you call me that _one more time_ , I will - ”

John recognizes that deep voice, though the man in the doorway is somewhat less familiar, unbruised as he is. Still, those pale, otherworldly eyes have been haunting him for the past few days so there’s no doubt in his mind. Sherly - Sherlock, John assumes - stops short and actually looks surprised when he spots John. His eyes narrow and he looks around the room as though he’s expecting some sort of trap. Jim’s smile only grows wider and he waits patiently, arms folded, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an excited child.

“Now you won’t have to sulk anymore,” he says. “You’ll have your own pet.”

“I don’t want a pet,” Sherlock says.

“Liar.”

Sherlock glares at him. “I don’t want him. Take him back.”

“Can’t now. Everyone saw me take him. What would that to do our reputations?” Jim turns towards him and John can’t help the instinctive step back. It doesn’t help; Jim grabs his face, fingers digging cruelly into his cheeks, the grip strong for a man so small. “He is a cute puppy. Perhaps _I’ll_ have to keep him. I could use another toy.”

“No!” The word seems to jump out of Sherlock’s mouth. Jim freezes and then slowly his hand drops away, letting John pull back and stagger against the wall. “He’s not one of your toys.”

“Pet or toy, your choice.”

The tension is visible in Sherlock’s jaw. He takes a step closer to John and then reaches out to touch him. John freezes, uncertain of whether he should move away or allow the touch without protest. There’s the soft click of the gun and he swallows, standing still, and finally Sherlock does touch him, a shockingly gentle brush of fingers along John’s right cheek. And oh, in spite of himself John feels every nerve in his body light up with longing, a swell of want so potent that it chokes him, because he doesn’t recall the last time someone actually touched him so kindly. A small sound lodges in his throat and he turns his head slightly, refusing to admit to himself that he might actually be _nuzzling_ Sherlock’s fingers, and it’s only when he opens his eyes and sees the naked desire and fascination on Sherlock’s face that he jerks away.

“Pet,” Sherlock says decisively. “Definitely pet.”

“I’m not a pet,” John says. It’s the first time he’s spoken since the car and it doesn’t seem to have made a difference. No one acknowledges the comment. Jim is now speaking to Sebby in low tones and Sherlock is openly examining John in a clinical matter, like John is a particularly interesting specimen. The look leaves John feeling edgy, uncertain, like he’s gotten in over his head, and his eyes dart towards the door. Perhaps it would be worth the threat of getting shot?

“A bath, I think,” Sherlock says suddenly, his voice smooth and soft and warm. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, John? It must have been a while since you’ve had one. The skin beneath your sleeves is approximately two shades lighter than the skin of your hands.”

“Well yes,” he admits because that is true, he can’t remember the last time he bathed. “But - ”

“Come on.” Sherlock puts a hand on his lower back and the feel of it silences John. That hand is large, the palm pressed firmly against his spine, the fingers splayed across the top of his arse, just high enough to not be accused of copping a feel. Speechless, he allows Sherlock to guide him down the hall and into a bathroom. The tub is enormous, easily large enough for three or four grown men, and made out of what appears to be marble. Sherlock shuts the door, switches the faucets on and then turns to look at John with an expression that can only be defined as expectant.

John stares back at him, realizing that Sherlock has no intention of leaving the room. He wonders, briefly, if he’s still sleeping and this is just a really bizarre dream. “Look, I’m not sure who you are, but if you think - ”

“Get undressed, John.”

“No. In fact I think I’ll be leaving now.” He turns on his heel, intending to find a way regardless of what it takes, even if it means getting bloody well shot, he’s not going to sit here and play whatever game they’ve cooked up - 

“John.”

There’s something dark in Sherlock’s voice that stops him in his tracks. A moment later he feels warmth along his back, dangerously close, and his breath hitches unconsciously. Sherlock reaches around his waist and starts unbuckling his trousers, slapping John’s hand away when John moves to make him stop. “We can do this easily or you can fight me, John. I don’t particularly care which. But either way you are going to end up in the same place.”

And the weird thing is it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a _promise_.


	3. Chapter 3

The water in the tub is hot, not quite to the point of burning but nearly there, turning what he can see of his skin a healthy shade of pink. It’s humiliating to be there with Sherlock sitting beside him, perched on the toilet and watching in silence as John takes hold of the soap and a cloth and begins scrubbing himself down. He’s very conscious of those pale eyes. His mind is spinning uselessly, body on autopilot, trying to figure out what’s going on and what he’s going to do about it. Evidently he’s caught the attention of two dangerous men but he’s not sure what they want from him or why. He’s not entirely certain he wants to know what they mean by “pet”.

“You’re missing spots,” says Sherlock suddenly and before John can respond he’s leaning down and taking the cloth out of John’s hand.

John’s mouth drops open and for a split second he’s actually speechless as this strange, posh bloke takes hold of his ankle and begins to rub the cloth over his skin, pressing just this side of too hard. Those long, pale fingers curl gently around his heel in a grip that, although seemingly gentle, is actually firm enough that John can’t pull free even when he tries. Indeed, Sherlock just looks amused by the attempt, like John is a child or - his throat hurts - a _pet_. Oh god.

“You…” he says faintly, suddenly overcome with the strangest desire to giggle. Because there’s just no way that this is actually happening. It’s just too bizarre. 

“Me,” Sherlock prompts when John doesn’t finish his sentence. There’s an amused smile curling his lips as his hand moves higher, up John’s knee to his thigh. A bit too high, actually. John goes tense and his hand snaps out to grab Sherlock’s wrist, his heart picking up. He might be naked in a tub on someone else’s command but there are some lines not to be crossed.

“You can’t actually do this. You do know that, right?” he says for lack of anything better to say. “I mean, it’s illegal. You can’t just arbitrarily decide to keep someone as a… as a pet.” He stumbles slightly with the word.

Sherlock leans back and looks at him speculatively. “You’re a soldier returned home from Afghanistan, we’ve already established that. You don’t remember who you are or where you come from but even if you did you wouldn’t have any personal attachments. You were invalidated home and the rest of your teammates are still there. Parents are dead, no doubt. You have at least one sibling, evident by the way that you’re used to taking care of others, and he or she - impossible to tell which - is an alcoholic. Normally I’d attribute you trying to care for everyone to the fact that you used to be a doctor but you pay more attention to alcoholics than you do anyone else. It’s instinct for you, just like it was when you were trying to see my head.”

Automatically John’s eyes flick up to scan Sherlock’s forehead. The wound has been repaired with a series of stitches that he can tell are neatly done, won’t even scar, but he doesn’t know _how_ he knows it. He makes a small sound of distress without realizing it and Sherlock’s smirk grows wider.

“You might think that it was one of your parents who was the alcoholic and perhaps that’s true but a sibling, close to you in age, makes the most sense. Regardless, you weren’t close to him or her. No one is looking for you, John. No one will care that you have gone missing. Homeless people disappear all the time and the only one who notices is me.” Sherlock bends down again and tangles his free hand into John’s hair, bringing their faces uncomfortably close, arching John’s spine. “You belong to me now. I find you interesting. In time you’ll learn to accept and enjoy it.”

For the second time in less than five minutes John finds himself speechless. The only thought in his mind is that _Sherlock has been watching him_. How else could he know that John tries to help anyone he finds, but especially the ones who are falling down drunk? A cold feeling curls up in his belly as he begins to contemplate the idea that maybe it won’t be so easy to escape this after all, that perhaps in this instance he has got himself in over his head. Suddenly he wishes that when Moriarty first kicked him awake he’d run for it and let the blond shoot him, get it over with fast.

Those pale eyes are still watching him but either Sherlock can’t guess what he’s thinking or he’s satisfied with it because he says nothing, just keeps cleaning John thoroughly. And John lets him, keeps his mouth shut and stares at the faucet in a daze as those oddly gentle hands cleanse him of several layers of dirt and skin. There’s a lump in his throat and at first he thinks it’s because he’s going to cry, much as he loathes the thought, but then he realizes that it’s not tears. It’s anger. A cold, burning fury that makes his stomach go tight, and alright maybe there’s a bit of fear mixed in there too but primarily he’s just pissed that anyone could be so bloody _arrogant_.

He’s never been much of an actor but he does his best to keep those thoughts off of his face for the moment; he can’t exactly escape with Sherlock right beside him, after all. In a stony silence he submits to the rinsing, moving his limbs in whatever way Sherlock wants. Some people are touchy about nudity but John’s not and if Sherlock is right and he was in the army and a doctor then it makes sense. The whole time he thinks about how good it would feel to snap that long, slender neck. Just wrap his fingers around it, exert the right sort of pressure and then walk out with no one the wiser. It would be easy, he thinks, and he’s not sure he wants to know what that says about him.

Sherlock smirks. “Stand up.”

Setting his jaw, John obeys the command, using the side of the tub to support his weight when his leg twinges. Sherlock looks at him unashamedly, eyes taking in every detail, and John lets him though he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Sherlock tries to touch so thank god the man seems to be content to keep his hands to himself. Finally, though, Sherlock lets him step out of the tub and gives him a towel to dry off. John can't help shivering as he rubs the towel briskly over his body. It's cool in the room and he hasn't been damp and clean like this in months, he's not used to it.

"Where are my clothes?" he says.

"I suspect Jim has burned them by now," Sherlock says, wrinkling his nose and looking a bit like a cat that has been offended by a pool of water. "I just gave you a bath, John, really. Even you should realize that putting soiled clothing back on would defeat the purpose." He catches the end of the towel and snaps it out of John's hands. "Come along."

Naked, John hesitates, staring at the door as Sherlock saunters through it. There's a difference between being in here and being out there. Nudity will mean something more if he's the only one naked. Unwillingly his mind offers up a couple of frankly frightening ideas about what it might mean to be someone's _pet_. He's not interested in that, not one bit, but he'll play along for now if only to let Sherlock grow complacent. Once the man believes that John is willing to go along with whatever this is, that's when he'll make his move. He knows the streets after six months, he can disappear and Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty will never know where he’s gone.

John clings to that as he walks through the door and emerges into the hallway. The living room is substantially warmer, he notices immediately. Someone has built a roaring fire. The flames spit and hiss and it's a comforting sound, though he's not really sure why. Unconsciously he moves across the room until he finds himself standing right in front of it. The heat is tantalizing and sweet against his chilled skin and he holds his hands out. He'd crouch down if it wouldn't pain his leg and leave him too vulnerable. He breathes in deeply - smoke and wood, a pleasant sort of taste in the back of his throat - and lets it out slowly, wiggling his toes in the plush rug.

"You're hungry." 

He jumps and spins. "Jesus! Don't do that!" he exclaims, realizing Sherlock is standing right behind him, How does the man move so bloody quietly?

"You're hungry," Sherlock repeats, ignoring him. He holds out a bowl. John examines it warily. It's some kind of soup, fragrant with the warm, homey smell of chicken. Fat egg noodles and chunks of vegetables float amongst the broth and his stomach growls eagerly. But he's not that stupid and Sherlock rolls his eyes, grabbing the spoon and lifting it to his mouth. He swallows a spoonful and arches an eyebrow at John as though to say, you see?

Feeling a bit foolish, John takes the bowl. But when he reaches for the spoon Sherlock pulls it out of his reach. He stares at the man for a handful of seconds, recognizing this for the power play that it is, and decides - fine. Without a word he lifts the bowl to his lips and tilts it, allowing the broth to flow into his mouth. And oh god, it's so fucking good that he has to consciously restrain from inhaling it. Thick and hearty, the taste makes his tongue dance and his stomach growl for more. He drinks in huge gulps, chewing the vegetables and chicken and noodles quickly, and doesn't even realize that he's feeling hazy until the bowl is nearly empty.

It slips from his fingers, saved only by Sherlock's quick reflexes, as John's knees buckle. Sherlock saves him too, slinging an arm around John's waist and bearing his weight to the floor. He tries to lash out but his hand merely twitches in response, the lassitude stealing over him frighteningly quickly. But how - ? Sherlock catches his inquisitive stare and smiles.

"Drug addict in my youth," he says. "One mouthful isn't nearly enough to affect me."

"Bastard," John says, or tries to, he thinks it comes out as more of a whimper. The last thing he feels before passing out entirely is Sherlock's hand stroking over his hair.


	4. Chapter 4

John’s return to consciousness is slow, marked by a desire to continue enjoying this sweet grasp of deep sleep that beckons him back with welcome arms. It’s the first time in months that he hasn’t had a single nightmare and that’s far too tempting for him to resist. His eyes flutter open briefly before sliding shut again, and although a voice somewhere deep in the back of his mind is shrieking, demanding that he _wake up_ immediately, but he can’t bring himself to listen to it and so he doesn’t. But it can’t be ignored for long.

Safe. Warm. Comfortable. Good… but unfamiliar. John opens his eyes slowly, blinking lazily, every muscle loose and well rested. His body is _deliciously_ warm, as a matter of fact, a change from the icy temperatures that have been steadily pervading London. The persistent throb in his shoulder is, for once, nothing more than a dull ache and although his head hurts a little, he hasn’t been this relaxed in… well. Actually he can’t ever remember a time when he’s felt like this, and it’s that knowledge, combined with the lingering sense of something not quite right, which finally causes him to fully rouse from his sleepy half-awake state.

The first thing he notices is that he’s lying on top of a rug that’s easily plush enough to shelter his body from the hard floor underneath. A fireplace is inches away from his face, which is so near to the gate that a shift in the wrong direction would’ve left him with uncomfortable bruises on his forehead and a far less indulgent awakening. The dulled flames are smouldering over a lone log and throwing off just enough heat to warm the area directly in front, leaving the rest of the room with a chill. Not that it matters considering that the room is empty and the rest of the house is silent and he is still naked.

_Jesus_. John closes his eyes, momentarily torn between frustration and annoyance, having hoped that it was all a horrible dream. Because even though he’s woken up warm and rested and well fed and sheltered he wants nothing more than to go back to his cold box and suffer through a frigid, hungry night where he doesn’t dare fall asleep in case he doesn’t wake up again. Now he can remember Sherlock, the bastard, drugging him, but everything after that is a blank. He supposes that it’s too much to hope Sherlock and Jim would’ve fallen victim to a particularly violent death during the night.

The fireplace pops and sizzles and he jumps a little, staring warily at the flames for a moment before letting out a slow breath as the silence resumes. Now that he thinks about it the house does seem oddly quiet. Is Sherlock watching him from somewhere, waiting to see what he’ll do next? He wouldn’t put it past him, mostly because he doesn’t think there’s a chance he’s been left alone. Christ, he doesn’t even know what time it is or what day it is; for all he knows Sherlock has kept drugging him and it’s been two weeks. The thought is not an appealing one. He needs to find out more. He’s looking around for clothing or a weapon of some sort when the door cracks open.

“Oh good, you’re awake!” the woman who bustles inside is definitely not Sherlock Holmes or Jim Moriarty or even the blond bloke who loves guns. She’s an older bird, greying hair worn short, with kind eyes, wearing a pinny over her sensible lavender dress. There’s a tray in her hands but John isn’t in the right position to see what’s on it. “Mr Holmes insisted that I let you wake up on your own. He didn’t think it would take this long. Mind you, you look a bit smaller than what he’s used to.”

John bristles at the implication that he’s ‘small’. He’s had to teach more than one person on the streets that size doesn’t translate to strength or cunning and he’s about to say as much when he realizes that he’s _still_ naked. Instinctively, almost before he realizes what he’s doing, he curls his legs up against his chest. His brain has caught on something, something far more pressing that this temporary embarrassment. “Does… does that mean Sherlock’s not here?”

“Oh no, he left yesterday,” she says breezily, seemingly unperturbed by his nudity or reaction to her presence. “Will you eat? You look half-starved.”

“No.” It’s quick to his lips, the word cold and shuttered, final.

“Alright, love, if that’s what you want. I’ll just leave some tea and biscuits here for you in case you change your mind.” She sets the tray down and turns, clearly intending to leave, and suddenly John realizes that his chance to escape could be walking out the door. Does she know that he doesn’t want to be here? Would she care?

“Wait!” he says frantically.

She stops. “Yes dear?”

“I - I have to leave. I have to… Please, you don’t know what he wants to do to me. He wants to treat me like I’m a pet, he’s already drugged me…” John trails off, already reading her response in the calm shake of her head, and a cold knot forms in his chest.

“You belong here now. Mr Holmes will take good care of you,” she says. “He’d be so disappointed if he came back and you were gone. Why, he even ate before he left yesterday.” She beams, like this is information John should also be happy to hear, and it absolutely galls him that she doesn’t seem to understand the severity of the situation, that he can’t make her understand.

“I can’t,” John says desperately, and in spite of himself he wants to crawl across the room and put his head down in her lap and cry. “I _can’t_. Please.”

Sympathy finally dawns in her expression and she half-lifts her hand as though she’d like to stroke his hair, but even though John yearns for a kind touch that doesn’t come with veiled consequences and he’s certain that shows in his face she lets it fall back to her side instead. “Look, dear, our Mr Holmes, he does love a good fight. It’s not decent of him but that’s the way it is. It would be… easier for you if you were to give in, you know.” She says it with a resigned air, like she knows John won’t listen. “If he loses interest in you…” She surveys John’s desolate face and sighs. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Seeing her walk out and close the door behind her is nearly more than John can bear, especially when he hears the quiet but unmistakable click of a lock a second later. For a moment he ducks his head and just sits there, struggling to keep the looming sense of doom from overwhelming him. The depraved amusement from before is gone, leaving him feeling exhausted even though he’s slept for longer than he has in probably his whole life. Make Sherlock Holmes lose interest in him? How the bloody hell is he supposed to do that when John still doesn’t know what made the man interested in him in the first place?

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself at length. It’s tempting to just go back to sleep but he’s not ready to give in that easily. Wearily he gets to his feet, noticing that there is indeed tea and freshly baked biscuits, still piping hot, waiting for him on the tray. His stomach grumbles with the desire for food but there’s no way he’s going to fall for that again.

His legs feel a bit unsteady but they hold his weight and he totters over to the door. Locked, as expected, and he can tell that the lock is a good, firm one that won’t be easily broken by his faltering strength and bad shoulder. He tries the other one and finds himself in the kitchen, which actually looks more like a chemistry laboratory. John’s not stupid enough to touch any of the chemicals because god only knows what Sherlock would have lying around. There’s one window but it’s small, slotted over the sink, and he can tell at a glance that he won’t fit through. He moves on, down the hall past the loo, and finds another locked door. That’s it. That’s the whole flat.

It takes a moment for reality to sink in.

He’s trapped. 

_“Now you won’t have to sulk anymore. You’ll have your own pet.”_

_“You belong to me now. I find you interesting. In time you’ll learn to accept and enjoy it.”_

_“It would be easier for you if you were to give in, you know.”_

Slowly, his breath coming in panicked gasps, he sinks to the floor and curls into a ball, head pillowed his hands in an unsuccessful attempt to block everything out.


	5. Chapter 5

By the time John hears voices out in the flat he has gathered himself back together, mostly. One minute (alright, several if he’s going to be honest, he has no idea how long he’d spent curled up in the hall but he thinks (knows) it was a while) of allowing himself to be weak, to curse himself for having been so stupid as to have caught the attention of a madman in the first place, before he picks himself up and goes into the loo. There is a marked lack of anything sharp around but there is a cloth and he wets it with hot water before pressing it against his cheeks, hoping that it will soothe the puffiness around his eyes.

He has to be smart about this, he knows, and if Sherlock is right and he was in the army then John really wishes he could remember more about his time there. He feels like he’s operating at a disadvantage; he has no one to trust and no one who will be looking for him. But at the same time he’s had a lot of experience with being on his own and he doesn’t see why this instance should be any different. In spite of everything that Sherlock has said, he still feels that there is a way for him to get out of here. He has to believe that.

The question, therefore, becomes how. He rubs his face slowly as he ponders this, trying to think of what he’s learned about Sherlock so far. It isn’t much but he knows that Sherlock is brilliant and John’s acting skills are rubbish as it is without trying to fool someone who can know things about his past after five minutes. That means the next few days are going to be difficult. He has to earn Sherlock’s trust to the point where he’ll be able to make an escape. And then… well, as long as he is anywhere other than here, John doesn’t care where he ends up.

That’s when he first hears the voices, or more specifically after a moment of listening closely, _a_ voice. Sherlock’s voice, to be precise. His stomach tightens and he sucks in a deep breath, automatically squaring his shoulders. He leaves the loo and moves down the hall as silently as possible. Sherlock is standing at the table, bent over a microscope, and he doesn’t look up when John stops a few feet away. He’s dressed in what looks like a very expensive suit with a tight purple shirt, and in spite of everything the bastard looks good. The suit is tight in just the right places and the colour of his shirt highlights the pallor of his skin. 

It doesn’t sit well with John that he notices that, that he _can’t help_ noticing that, and he forcefully wrenches his eyes away from Sherlock, staring at the sink. His plan to remain calm and try to win Sherlock’s trust evaporates in the span of a second and he says, “Are you done yet?”

There is no response. Sherlock acts like he hasn’t even spoken, just switches out the slide he’s been peering at for another one. Annoyed, John clears his throat pointedly and says, “Are you done yet? With this… this farce? Because you know you can’t actually keep me here. You can’t just drug someone on a whim and lock them up in your flat. It’s against the law.”

“Pray tell,” Sherlock murmurs absently, “what sort of evidence you have that would lead you to think that I care with the law thinks.”

John sets his jaw, not really sure how to respond to that. Finally, he says, “So what, you’re going to just keep me here forever?”

“Yes.”

The answer, so simple and easily stated, makes John furious. He wants very much to punch Sherlock right in his posh face and oh, that’s a tempting thought. He wonders if he could take Sherlock in a fight, if it might be worth the attempt. The man is taller than him, yes, but he’s also more slender than John - and considering that John was, up until yesterday, homeless it makes him wonder whether Sherlock ever eats. Instead of punching him, though, he clenches a hand at his side, some hidden instinct warning him off. “You can’t just do that. I’m not a pet. I’m a person. You don’t get to arbitrarily decide otherwise.”

“Why not?”

“Sorry?” The word slips out without permission and John grinds his teeth, annoyed by the idea of ever apologizing to Sherlock for anything, even not hearing him properly.

“I said, why not?” Sherlock finally looks up. His eyes glitter in the light.

"Because... because it's wrong, that's why!"

"It's wrong," Sherlock repeats mockingly, rising from his spot at the table, and suddenly he seems very tall indeed, his shadow cast over John. "Is that really the best that you can offer me? It's _wrong_? That may be enough to govern the lives of the common masses but I got bored with that sort of thing a long time ago. One does when they have the British Government trying to run their life." He smirks faintly and takes a step closer to John. Instinctively John takes a step back and impacts with the counter. Unless he wants to retreat down the hall there is no where else for him to go. It’s cold against his buttocks and thighs and he’s reminded, unpleasantly, of how very naked he is.

"I get so bored, John. So bored. You can't even begin to imagine how boring it is. So when I find something that interests me I take it." His hand flashes out and grips John's jaw hard, tilting it up so that their faces are close. John goes quiet and still, some long hidden instinct kicking to the surface. "Don't try to tell me that I can't have you."

"You can't," John chokes out, even though it hurts, Sherlock's fingers digging deeply into his flesh with the movement of his mouth. And if he'd thought that the paltry protest would be enough to drive Sherlock away he's sadly mistaken. There's a light in Sherlock's eyes and it takes John almost a full minute to recognize it: interest. Sherlock is intrigued by the challenge he's presenting. It sends a chill down his spine.

Instead of responding, Sherlock reaches down and wraps his hand around John's cock. Instantly John's hands snap up to push him away. Sherlock's hand tightens dangerously, just this shade of hurting too much, and John freezes for a second time for an entirely different reason, his hands resting lightly on Sherlock’s chest. 

"I have to admit I'm enjoying the farce you're putting up," Sherlock says idly. "I can see how much you want this, John. Everything about you just screams pet. Not a toy, no, you're not something to be broken. You just want to be cared for. I'll be good to you. Food every day, or as often as I remember. A nice spot in front of the fire. Perhaps someday, when you can be trusted, I'll even take you along to my crime scenes." His grip changes, no less firm but somehow gentler, and to John's horror his flesh begins to thicken. "I won't hurt you."

It seems like a strange thing to say when Sherlock is slowly stroking him against his will and John wants to say as much but he seems to have temporarily lost control of his voice. Sherlock studies his expression and smiles with just a hint of smugness as he slides his fingers all the way to the tip of John's cock. The shaft is fattening up in his hand, the head peeking out of the foreskin like it's seeking Sherlock's heat, and Sherlock obliges, tugging the foreskin back and rubbing a thumb roughly over the slit. Sparks of pleasure shoot through John and his knees buckle and only the fact that he's shoved up against the cupboards, pinned by Sherlock's body, keeps him from sliding to his knees. As hateful as this is, he's absurdly glad for that; he has the feeling that being on his knees right now would be a very dangerous thing.

"Stop." His vocal chords finally kick in and the word emerges as a roughened squeak but at least it's a start. John shuts his eyes and drags in a shaky breath and oh, it turns out that's a bad idea because with his eyes closed all he has to focus on is the soft sweet pleasure that's shooting up his spine.

"It's been a long time since anyone touched you like this, hasn't it?" Sherlock murmurs in a low voice, tinged with sympathy that John knows must be false. There's a part of him that craves it anyway and he hates it. "I can tell by the way that you push into my touch." He releases John's cock and begins tugging lightly at his balls, teasing the heavy weight, playing with the small, furled hairs. 

"B-Bastard. I don't... oh god." John actually feels dizzy. It's been a while since he's had the chance to bring himself off. Living on the streets isn't very conductive to that sort of thing, not unless you want a cop on your arse. And fuck, Sherlock is right, he can’t remember the last time he got off with anyone. He swallows a moan as Sherlock breathes out hotly against his neck and grips his shaft again, long pulls that go from base to tip and somehow hit everything patch of sensitive skin in between. 

"Shh, John," he says lowly and John realizes, to his mortification, that he's whimpering like some kind of animal, like the pet Sherlock says he is. He bites down on his lower lip so hard it draws blood but it's too late, it's _too late_ , the coiling in his loins and belly are the only warning he gets before the world seems to fall apart around him and he gives a strangled cry as he pulses into Sherlock's hand, spilling his seed between them. Sherlock keeps stroking him through it, until John can't take it anymore and lets out a muffled sob to say as much. Only then does he stop, rubbing his fingers together like he's testing the consistency. Then he looks at John and John can only wonder what it says on his face because Sherlock's lips quirk in satisfaction.

"Just think, John," he says, "someday you'll be begging for that."


	6. Chapter 6

With as much dignity as he can muster under the circumstances, John retreats into the loo and closes the door behind him, noticing for the first time that there is no lock. But even though Sherlock can come in at any time it makes him feel marginally better to have that small barrier between the two of them, especially when he sits down on the floor with his back to the cupboard, feet angled so that anyone opening the door will run straight into him. For several minutes he just stares off into space while his heart rate slowly begins to subside and the flush fades from his skin, his cock softening and the sticky mess on his thighs and belly congealing into something disgusting.

He doesn't know what to do and that's the honest truth. It seems like Sherlock has outwitted him at every possible turn, like the man is two steps ahead of whatever plan comes into John's mind. And if Sherlock has gone this far... John knows he doesn't want to find out the rest. He has to get out. But how? His eyes roam the small, cramped room almost desperately but there is nothing new to offer any kind of hope. There is only the tub, sink, and toilet, and of course he could drown himself but John's never considered that sort of escape, not in the six months he's been on the streets, and he's not about to now. There _has_ to be some other way of escaping, or at least getting help. He just needs to think of it.

Because the thing is, as much as John might say that he hated what Sherlock did, it had been shamefully good. He can still feel the clever play of those fingers on his skin, leaving behind burning trails that his nerves still tingle with. Sherlock is forceful and commanding and domineering and fuck if the bloody man doesn't set fire raging through John's blood. He stares down at his hands, remembering the moment when he'd come and his fingers had clenched in Sherlock's shirt, so clingy, like he'd been trying to keep Sherlock close to him, and how it had taken several trembling seconds before he recalled himself enough to pull away. It feels as though his own body is starting to betray him and it hasn't even been more than a few days. How far will this go if he stays for a week? A month?

"Fuck," he whispers, feeling dizzy and shaky and not quite right. When he tries to get to his feet he nearly stumbles and it's only the sink that saves him; he grabs the cloth he used to wash his face before and wets it with scalding water before scrubbing at his body, trying to remove every trace of Sherlock Holmes. His skin turns bright pink and then raw and red under the assault but John doesn't stop, can't stop, because he can still feel it and he doesn't think that it's ever going away and right now that's way more than he can bear.

He almost doesn't hear the knock on the door. But it's impossible to miss the sound of that clear, calm voice.

"John."

His hand snaps out and he shuts the faucet off. "What?" he says and it sounds so reasonable, like they’re a pair of fucking flatmates having a chat, and god he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry.

"Stop hiding in the bathroom. I need to talk."

For a half a second he entertains the frankly impossible idea that Sherlock has decided that what he's doing is wrong, and then John clues in to the fact that Sherlock had said _I_ and not _we_. John doesn't even know what that means. Wearily he wrings out the cloth and hangs it over the side of the sink. From his ribs to his thighs and everywhere in between is a bright red that looks as painful as it feels, not burned or raw enough to need treatment but an irritant to be sure. It will draw Sherlock's attention, no doubt, and he'll know what John was doing if he doesn't know already. And fine, that's fine, John wants the bastard to know that he's been washing every bit of what happened between them away. It's exactly what Sherlock deserves.

So why, as he pulls the door open and steps out into the hall, does he feel just a little bit guilty?

Sherlock is in the room where John first woke up, hands folded together, eyes locked on the ceiling. He says nothing and does nothing to indicate he even knows John is in the room - until John crosses over to the chair and starts to sit down. Only then does he say, "The furniture is not for pets, John. You haven't earned that right yet."

John freezes in the middle of sitting down. HIs eyes flick towards the floor and he swallows his first retort, which is to demand that surely Sherlock doesn't expect him to sit on the floor because he knows that's exactly what Sherlock wants. Part of him wants to just sit down on the chair anyway, regardless of how Sherlock will react. Coincidentally that's also the part of him that has been itching for a fight since he woke up from a drugged sleep. But there's another part of him, the part that got him through six months on the street by knowing what battles to pick, wants to stand up and sit on the floor, preferably as far away from Sherlock. In the end he just stays there, halfway through squatting, hesitant and unsure.

Pale eyes pierce through him when Sherlock sits up, just enough so that he can stare at John. "If you sit you will be punished."

Punished. Somehow just that word is enough to send a small thrill of fear through him and he hates that. Surely, though, it would be worth it? Surely he should just sit down and let Sherlock try to punish him, take it like a man even if it ends up with him on the floor because at least it would mean he's kept his worth as a human being and not some sort of pet. Instead, he slowly straightens his spine and stands up. Sherlock continues to stare at him, the seconds tick by, and John just stares back in a stony silence. This is his concession: he will not sit at all, not on the chair or the floor. He will stand because it is his choice to make and he is daring Sherlock to do something about it.

Instead, incredibly, Sherlock's lips quirk up into a smile and he lays back down so that he's not even looking at John anymore and he says, "If you were a man who wanted to kill someone, how would you do it?"

"However's easiest," John says automatically, and not for the first time he thinks about how easy it would be to get his hands around Sherlock's neck and just _squeeze_. The man is so unguarded around him that it would be likely be over before Sherlock even knows what's happening. 

"Mmm, yes, you would," Sherlock murmurs. "Most people would think the exact same way, that's what makes a crime of passion, and that's what makes this one so very different." He sits up smoothly and points one long finger across the room, and John's twisting to follow before he can stop himself. There is something different about the room, he notices belatedly. Pinned up across the wall is a variety of crime scene photos, each depicting something different, usually involving a massacred body or blood. John studies the photos briefly with a clinical detachment. He's never seen anything like that before that he's aware of, but the photos don't bother him the way they should. He only realizes that when he glances back at Sherlock and sees that he's smirking.

"Premeditated," Sherlock says the word with a certain amount of relish as he springs off of the couch and strides closer to the wall, not seeming to notice how John ducks away from him. "Obvious once you know what you're looking for. I suspect this is not nearly as interesting as I originally thought it would be. It seems to be a case of a murderer taking advantage of a few easy targets to mask the one that he really wants." He circles the last photo on the wall, a grisly thing of a stunning blonde woman who has had her throat slashed.

John looks at him and then back at the photos. His throat works for a few seconds before he can make himself speak. "You... did you...?"

"Me?" Sherlock seems to find this very amusing. "No, John. I did not kill these women. Where is the fun in that?"

There is nothing John can say in response.

"No," Sherlock goes on, "I'm helping the police to solve this case."

Surely, John thinks, surely he has just heard wrong. "I'm sorry - " and damn it, there he goes again, apologizing " _you_ work with the _police_?"

"That's right. I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock says. "Only one in the world."

"But you..." John actually feels faint. This has knocked his world for a loop and he feels, very strongly, that there is something he is missing, some bout of crucial information that has passed entirely over his head. In light of everything that has happened it's just too much.

Sherlock is beside him before John is even conscious of the fact that he is swaying. One strong arm is slung around his waist and then he's being pulled against Sherlock's body and for a frozen beat he thinks maybe Sherlock has drugged him again but no, Sherlock crouches as he sets John down on the floor and peers into his face. He makes a noise in the back of his throat. "Food," he says decisively. "You haven't eaten in several days." He glances around and then fetches the tray that Mrs Hudson left, holding it out to John, who just stares - first at the food and then at Sherlock, and he's pretty sure the expression on his face must say it all, must say, you've got to be joking.

"Eat, John," Sherlock says very quietly, leaning in close, their faces inches apart. His eyes are huge and glittering and John feels dizzy again. "Eat."

A biscuit is pressed to John's lips. He hesitates for a long moment, remembering the last time he took food from Sherlock, before he takes a bite.


	7. Chapter 7

The biscuits are plump and filled with honey, sweet and hearty, and he can tell that they would have been delicious if eaten while warm. Now they’re sticky and have congealed a bit, the honey oozing through the thin, flaky crust and making a mess, but John still eats every one from Sherlock’s fingers. It becomes soothingly rhythmic to not have to do anything except open his mouth and accept a bite of whatever is being offered, to chew and then swallow before repeating the process. At some point Sherlock gets a hold of a cup of tea and he brings that to John’s lips too, tilting the cup insistently until he has no choice but to let the cold liquid slide down his throat.

On the whole he feels slightly better once his belly is filled, no longer so dizzy that the room spins threateningly when he shifts, but now that he’s been fed he realizes he’s exhausted. It’s not like the overwhelming tide of unconsciousness that swept him away the last time he was drugged; no, this is slower, a sweet crawling sort of fatigue that makes his head feel muzzy and thick. But he doesn’t dare fall asleep, not when Sherlock is this close. God knows what the bastard will do to John if he lets his guard down that much: it’s one thing to be drugged into sleep and another thing entirely to _willingly_ fall asleep, like he trusts Sherlock that much when really he doesn’t trust him at all, and rightfully so at that.

If Sherlock notices that he is having a difficult time staying awake, he does not mention it. Rather, now that John has been fed he seems to have lost interest, springing to his feet and pacing wildly back and forth, alternating between staring intently at the photographs on the wall and gesturing wildly with his hands, muttering to himself in a voice too low and too quick for John to make out anything more than the occasional word. John watches for a while, eyes heavily lidded with the desire to sleep, half-heartedly trying to sort through what Sherlock has told him. A consulting detective who works with the police on a regular basis, yet who also kidnaps people and is known on the streets for being in league with a criminal, even has his own nickname and the reputation for being a sort of bogey man. It doesn’t make sense. Who the fuck _is_ Sherlock Holmes?

“Premeditated,” Sherlock is muttering, whirling around and pointing accusingly at one of the photos, “and yet the angle of the slash wounds and the depth suggests that he was not skilled enough to have... Is there a second killer?” He sounds thrilled by this idea: it’s enough to stop him in place and he stares at the wall with narrowed eyes like he can divine their secrets through sheer strength of will alone. After a moment, he seizes his mobile phone from the sofa where he left it and begins typing madly.

John closes his eyes briefly and listens to the sound of that tapping, which is sort of like hearing one of the other homeless men who shared his alley continually scrape his knife against the wall because he was under the impression that doing so all night would keep the rats from feasting on his flesh. He’s vaguely aware that he begins drifting after all, not entirely awake but not completely asleep, and distantly hears Sherlock mumbling something about knives and the teenagers who are apparently too stupid to know what to do with them. His back begins to ache, the pain thrumming into his shoulder, and he shifts about restlessly. The floor, rug or not, is not and will never be a comfortable place to sleep. He should get up, he thinks, the thoughts not quite fully formed, and lay down on the sofa regardless of what Sherlock says. It will be worth not having to suffer the pain of a stiff shoulder in the morning.

But he doesn’t move, remains where he is, squirming sleepily until his head comes to rest against something warm and firm. He lets it stay there a moment and it’s quite nice, actually, at just the right height that he can rest both his head and shoulder against it, and the heat soothes the building pain. It’s even nicer when a hand rests lightly on his head, fingers scratching through his hair, finding all of the right places that make a moan of pleasure build up in his chest. This touch, fuck, it’s lighting up all the nerve endings in his body and he wants to press up into it, wants it never to stop, because it’s been so bloody long since anyone touched him kindly, with no expectations and nothing in return.

He’s not really sure how long he stays there for with that hand stroking his hair, and there’s a voice in his mind trying to point out what’s going on, that he’s being petted like a fucking dog by the man who has kidnapped him, but John can’t be arsed to listen, not when he’s sinking even deeper into the first real, undrugged sleep he’s had in months. He’s full and warm and as comfortable as can be, and he’s not safe, not by a long shot, but he’s safer in a room with just one psychopath than out on the street where there are dozens, and he’ll go back to fighting Sherlock and trying to escape in the morning as long as he can just, for right now, sleep a little bit.

The footsteps make them both go tense and John stirs a little, awareness coming back. Sherlock’s fingers press down a bit firmer and he subsides, though his body remains tense and he can’t resist opening his eyes, well aware of the fact that he is both naked and, to all appearances, cuddling up to the man who kidnapped him. He watches as the door to the outside world opens and a man steps in. He is a tall man, about Sherlock’s height, with dark ginger hair and pale skin that looks like it doesn’t often see the light of the day. He’s wearing an expensive suit, tailored to fit his body perfectly, and he’s got an umbrella in his hand even though John is pretty sure that it’s not raining. The man’s eyes sweep across the room, dark and knowing, and John burns with the urge to yank away from Sherlock’s warm thigh but the hand in his hair has tightened, a silent warning to remain still, and in spite of himself he succumbs to it.

“Sherlock,” says the man, taking another slow step into the room. His gaze lingers on John and he leaves the door open, a cruel taunt.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock mutters, sounding less than welcoming but also resigned. “What do you want?”

“I’ve been hearing the most interesting rumours. I see that they’re true.” Mycroft moves further into the room and takes a seat on the armchair, the one that John tried to sit down on earlier. He can’t help bristling a little when Sherlock doesn’t say anything to dissuade Mycroft from sitting, and if it weren’t for the fingers tangled in his hair he would pull away.

“Been watching CCTV footage again? I’m beginning to think you’re stalking me,” says Sherlock. “Why can’t you just keep your fat nose out of my business, Mycroft? What I do is none of your concern, I’ve told you that repeatedly, and yet you insist on trying to act like you’re responsible for everything I do.”

“When I stop having to clean up after you, I won’t be,” says Mycroft. There’s a chilly smile on his face, tight at the corners, and John is inexplicably relieved that look is not directed at him. “Kidnapping, Sherlock? I wondered whether your association with James Moriarty would be good for you. Certainly, it has stopped your boredom from reaching toxic levels. But this...” Now he is looking at John, and yup, it’s terrifying. “I have to admit that this is a level I had not seen you falling to. I’m beginning to think that I should limit your contact with Moriarty to stop you from going any further down this path.”

Sherlock huffs and the pressure on John’s head eases, becomes petting again, and John wants to move away but Mycroft is still staring at him and he’s not sure he dares. The skin on the back of his neck is prickling with awareness and he doesn’t know _how_ he knows but he knows that this man is dangerous, possibly even more of a threat than Sherlock and considering all that has gone on already that’s saying something. He tells himself that it is merely sticking with the danger that he knows best when he presses closer to Sherlock’s leg, and it’s an added bonus that the move helps to hide much of the front of his body. He tells himself that it has nothing to do with the fact that being this close to Sherlock feels a bit like being given shelter from an oncoming storm that promises to wreak havoc.

“Moriarty chose to kidnap John of his own free will, Mycroft. I didn’t ask him to. It came down to a choice between me and Moriarty, and you can’t honestly tell me that you’re suggesting I give John back to him.”

Mycroft winces slightly, the movement subtle but there, and says, “No, of course not.”

“I can’t set him free, either. If he catches John back on the streets, and you know he will, the consequences would be quite painful,” Sherlock concludes, and how the fuck is he managing to make this sound reasonable, like he’s _protecting_ John? “He is of no use to you, and therefore the best thing is for John to stay here, with me. Besides, I’m not bored anymore.” 

There’s a moment’s pause wherein Mycroft just looks at the two of them and John feels like his whole soul is being laid bare before these two men, and then Mycroft nods, just once. “Very well, Sherlock. I will not take your pet away from you. He can stay here with you as long as you promise to care for him. Perhaps it will finally teach you some measure of responsibility.” He stands up. “In return, I have a case that I would like you to look at.”

Sherlock mutters something that might be agreement and Mycroft nods again, apparently pleased. He leaves the room swinging his umbrella and closes the door behind him and the sound of the lock clicking into place is louder than it should be, because John is pretty sure he’s just watched his last hope of escaping die.


	8. Chapter 8

They don’t talk much over the next few days – or maybe it’s weeks, John realizes slowly that he is beginning to lose track of time, that he actually couldn’t say whether it’s Monday or Thursday without first checking the telly. Actually, Sherlock takes to ignoring John entirely whenever he is in the flat, too caught up in working on experiments or pouring over case files or, on occasion, sprawling all over the sofa and staring up at the ceiling like the answer to every problem he has is written up there in ink that only he can read. John spends most of his time tucked out of the way, usually in whatever room that Sherlock is not. More often than not, that’s not an issue because Sherlock isn’t home and it’s _boring_ : there’s very little for him to do besides watch telly and after a while the initial excitement wears off and that begins to grate on his mind. 

He should be grateful for the reprieve, he thinks as he watches yet another talk show, but he’s not. He doesn’t even get fed unless Sherlock is home, likely because Sherlock knows better than to leave Mrs Hudson guarding the door when John isn’t being drugged into complacency. One night after Sherlock has been gone anywhere from three to five days, as he huddles miserably beside the dying fire, his stomach so empty it’s cramping after an exhaustive search of the kitchen that yielded nothing even close to fit for human consumption, he realizes that he actually _wants_ Sherlock back in the flat. He wants the man actually present and paying attention to John, wants to hear his voice and feel his warmth, and that terrifies him more than anything else so far. 

That is, of course, when he hears the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside. Different than Sherlock's, though, lighter and more excited almost, like the person in question wants to take more than one step but can't. And as soon as the door swings open John knows the reason and it makes him want to find a gun. Moriarty, short and slender, is standing in the doorway, his face alight with an unholy glee that makes John's insides twist. Suddenly his warm little spot by the fireplace doesn't seem nearly as safe or comforting. He clenches a trembling hand into a fist and stares back at the man, noticing with an internal wince that the blond with the gun is standing right behind him and that his gun is visible, hanging at his side like a causal reminder of just how powerless John is.

"Johnny!" Moriarty crows, leaning over and clapping his hands together like he is expecting John to rush over to him on hands and knees just like a dog would. "It's been a while since we saw each other, hmm? Tell me, did you miss me?"

John's throat is dry, which is ridiculous considering that not half an hour ago he'd drunk several glasses of water in an effort to fool his belly into believing that it is full. "Where is Sherlock?" he manages to ask, his eyes automatically flicking past Moriarty, hoping that he'll hear the sound of Sherlock's footsteps dashing up the stairs. For all that he hates the man nothing about Sherlock can compete with that gleeful expression of Moriarty's. It sends chills up and down John's spine.

"Oh, Sherly had to go away for a little while. He's gone and got himself caught up with a case," says Moriarty, strolling casually into the room like he owns the place. He gives a derisive glance around and in spite of himself John feels a swell of indignation, because this is Sherlock's home and no one has the right to look like that. He subsides, though, when the blond shoots him a warning look and Moriarty swings around to face him with a smirk like they've had this two second argument out loud. "And I thought, my god, who is going to look after Johnny while Sherlock is otherwise occupied? I can see I was right, that idiot. I knew he couldn't be trusted to make alternate arrangements for you. After all the trouble I went through I wasn't about to let you expire here." He grins, teeth flashing, and adds, "Although really, sometimes I can't think of a better gift for our Sherly than his very own body to cut apart."

John feels sick to his stomach, the water threatening to come right back up. The major thing he has gleaned from all that is Sherlock has gone god knows where and Moriarty has come to collect him. His panicked gaze darts towards the door and he knows that this time he can't let them take him; there is literally no guessing where he will end up. He gives no sign of what he's about to do before he moves, he just bursts into a solid flurry of motion, but the blond seems to have been anticipating that. He disarms John with a smooth knee to the right kidney and takes him down embarrassingly easily, and then John feels a sharp little prick to the back of his neck. When he tries to lash out again his muscles don't respond.

"No worries, Johnny. We're just going to have some fun," Moriarty says. "Seb, carry him downstairs won't you?"

Seb picks John's body up like a sack of ill-gotten potatoes, slinging John over his shoulder and securing him with an arm across John’s bare thighs. Moriarty trails behind them as they walk down the stairs. Mrs Hudson is there, all a flutter, her hands twisting nervously. "You can't do this. Mr Holmes will be ever so upset," she's saying, and Moriarty brushes her off like she's speaking an unfamiliar language. 

"Sherlock will know where I am and what he needs to do to fetch his pet back," he says and Mrs Hudson shrinks back, her eyes darting helplessly to John, and then she just stands there and watches as the three of them exit the building. Seb tosses John into the backseat of a car and he and Moriarty get into the front. Apparently they're not concerned about the drug wearing off because neither of them bothers to tie John's hands or feet.

And that's _maddening_ , no other word for it, because if he could just sit up he'd be able to do something, although he's not sure whether that would be escaping the car or throttling Moriarty and Seb or maybe even shooting them provided he could get his hands on that gun. But not a single one of his muscles will respond to his command, not even a finger. He can feel his heart rate has slowed way down and it's frightening, honestly, to know that he wouldn't be able to do a damn thing while those two could do whatever they wanted. He tries not to imagine being carved up alive, having his skin flayed or burned from his bones, and he's got no idea where these images come from but he knows that Moriarty could and probably has done every single one at some point, and that's not frightening, it's fucking terrifying.

"Sherlock," he whispers, summoning all of his strength to utter that one word. It comes out slurred and useless. If only Sherlock could hear him. John feels certain that Sherlock would stop this. In spite of the uneasy truce that exists between him and Moriarty, they don't appear to be close friends. He'd given anything at that moment, as he feels the car beginning to slow down after what could've been a ride minutes or hours long, to be back in the flat with Sherlock.

"We're here," Moriarty sing songs and Seb throws the door open and grabs John again, carrying him into the building. It's got a restaurant out front, not the sort of place John would imagine taking someone you've kidnapped, but the back kitchen is empty except for a large man who has been bound and gagged. He mumbles something furiously when he spots the three of them and Moriarty waves a hand. "Now, now," he says idly with a wicked little giggle. “You were so kind to lend me your restaurant, no need to go back on your word.”

Judging from the man’s furious eyes he’s had no willing part in this. Moriarty nods at Seb and John is set down right in the middle of the floor, toppling over like a child who hasn’t yet learned the finer points of walking. He’s never been more aware of his nudity then he is right at that moment with the two of them standing over him and his arms sprawled all over, unable to cover himself even a little. The drug must be wearing off because his heart is starting to pound, so hard and furious that it makes him feel lightheaded, but his body still won’t respond to his commands beyond the occasional twitch of a finger.

Moriarty says very softly, “I think Sherlock would like a record of this moment” and then he takes out an expensive mobile phone and snaps a picture of John. He fiddles with the phone for a moment, sending the text, before handing it to Seb. His smile when he looks back at John has become purely wicked, the devil’s smile. “Now, we begin.”


	9. Chapter 9

John is one of those possibly misguided blokes who lives under the impression that every man, woman and child in the world has one thing that they are really and truly good at. He's not really sure what that something might be when it comes to himself but he suspects that at some point he did know what it was and most times that's comfort enough. In this case, though, as Moriarty slowly and patiently slides the tip of the knife into the heel of his foot, just deeply enough that it makes his leg spasm uncontrollably, he realizes that there are also people like Moriarty who appear to be truly talented at _more_ than one thing. And in this case, it just so happens that Moriarty is gifted at not only kidnapping but also torture.

The feeling in his body had returned about… well, he's not really sure how much time has passed, it's rather lost all meaning at this point. He tries but he can't keep himself still, can't help the trembling in his limbs and the faint little twitches that give him away. Seb noticed, of course he had, and fetched some coarse rope rubbed harshly against John's wrists and ankles as he was bound. Now he feels like a trussed up chicken, his arms tied so tightly behind his back that he's lost all sense of circulation and his legs tied equally tightly, though thankfully together. There are much worse positions to be in, he thinks, and at least this doesn't speak of anything sexual, and yet it's hard to be grateful for that when Moriarty is taking his time. So far he hasn't moved past the soles of John's feet but that doesn’t stop him from sharing his plans for when he does.

"You see," Moriarty is saying in a voice that sounds far too pleasant to belong to a criminal mastermind, "You see, Johnny, I met Sherlock when he was just a strung out kid searching for his next hit. I knew right away what he could’ve been. The fun we could have had..." His eyes are blazing with excitement as he pulls the knife out roughly and holds it up, inspecting the gleaming crimson streaking down the blade. "But his bloody brother had to get involved, him and that damned detective inspector. I could have had them both killed but Sherlock's sentimental about his pets. That's how I knew he would keep you, too."

He stands up slowly, looking John over the way someone would look at a five course dinner after they haven't eaten in months. "We've got a bit of a game going on and it's been fun, really, but Sherlock's getting boring now. All he ever does is solve his silly little cases and stay at home with you and I need more than that. I need _stimulation_ and he’s ignoring me." He drags the words out and they’re accompanied by another slow drag of the knife down John's heel, a playful touch almost. "I had hoped that bringing you home to him might convince Sherlock to be more interesting. He could've had so much fun with you, Johnny. You've got all this beautiful skin just begging to be split open. But he’s determined to train you to love him.” He clucks his tongue. “I was disappointed when I had to hand you over but now it seems I won't have to."

A muted sound that may be a whimper escapes from between John's gritted teeth. He's been gagged, of course, can't have anyone hearing the screams, and now that feels more like a small token of mercy than the extra torture it's no doubt meant to be. His feet feel like they've been dipped into acid; every nerve is alive and tingling with an electrifying pain. Every time Moriarty presses the knife in it's a fresh burst of pain and he just, he wants it to stop, he's not sure how much more of this slow cruelty he can be take, and there's just no end in sight because he really, truly doubts that anyone is coming for him. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to control his trembling. Is this how he is going to die?

"So pretty," Moriarty murmurs approvingly. "You could become one of my toys, you know. That is, if you live long enough." He dabs at his forehead with a handkerchief and finally, _finally_ , sets the knife aside. "What time is it, Seb?"

"Seven," says Seb, the first word he's spoken since they came into the restaurant. He's standing in the corner with his arms at his sides, back military straight, watching everything with a calm eye. Ostensibly he's there to keep things under control but John's caught him watching for a different reason more than once. The bulge in Seb's trousers is difficult to ignore and terrifying to contemplate.

"Really, that means it should be just about time," he muses, and then he pats John on the ankle. The action, no doubt meant to seem compassionate, makes John's skin crawl. It's almost worse than everything else he has gone through. "I expect we're going to be hearing from your owner within the next fifteen minutes, Johnny. And then we'll see what he's willing to do to get you back. In the meantime I suggest you rest up. I want you to be bright and fresh when we start up again." His grin is wicked and pitiless.

John remains tense until Moriarty turns and saunters away, walking over to the counter and casually washing his hands. Only then does he let go in one rough, gasping breath, every muscle in his body suddenly going lax. It fills him with an almost dizzying sense of relief that's he got this short reprieve. He stares up at the ceiling, deliberately not looking at either of them, and endeavours to take several slow, deep breaths: difficult with the gag in his mouth but necessary to keep him from spiralling into an all out panic attack. And he doesn't want to slide that far, if only because he knows that Moriarty will drink it up and find his terror endlessly amusing. He has certainly enjoyed every bit of John's pain.

The man from the restaurant makes a muffled sound and John tilts his head slightly to look at him. The sympathy he sees in those eyes is enough to make him shudder and he has to look away. That's just - it's too much, knowing that he has been reduced to a creature that is nothing more than something to be _pitied_. He lets his eyes close again and tries to search for a sense of calm as his pounding heart gradually starts to slow. Now that he is not under a deluge of pain and Moriarty and Seb are no longer paying attention to him, he has the freedom to think about how there must be something he can do.

A tinny burst of music attracts his attention before he can get very far. Moriarty takes his phone out and looks at the screen. He hits one of the buttons and holds it up for John to see. “Hello,” he sings.

“Jim.”

It’s Sherlock’s voice, deep and dark and _angry_ , and John has not cried a single tear during this whole miserable experience but he wants to cry now. The sound of that voice reminds him strongly of the flat and of long days and nights spent listening to Sherlock prattling on non-stop about this or that, about things that don’t matter to John but which he has no choice to listen to, those nights when he had almost enjoyed himself if he were being honest, would have enjoyed himself if he hadn’t been stark naked and lying or sitting on a rug. And suddenly he wants to be back there with a desperation that is frightening in its intensity and again he is grateful for the gag which keeps him silent.

“Ah, Sherly, I thought that might be you. Calling to check up on your pet?”

“No,” Sherlock says. “I can guess exactly what you’ve been up to while I was gone.”

Moriarty chuckles. “Found out that you were set up, hmm?” he says, satisfaction oozing from every pore. “You see, Sherly, you’re not the only smart boy here. I know when you’re ignoring me and that’s not a part of our deal. You play the game, that’s how it works.” He turns a glittering gaze onto John. “If I’d known that you would find your pet this fascinating I would have slit his throat the day Seb and I found him.”

“Jealousy does not become you, Jim.”

“I don’t suppose it does but that’s not really your choice to make, now is it?”

There’s a long pause, so long that John starts to wonder if Sherlock has hung up. But no - “What do you want?”

“I want you to _play the game_ ,” Moriarty snarls, the mask gone, anger twisting his face. “You can still salvage him, Sherlock. I’m looking at him right now and I can see it in his face, how much he misses you. He’ll be the perfect little pet for you now that I’ve broken him in and shown him what life could really be like. But if you don’t play, I’ll fuck him stupid. Literally.” His voice drops into a seductive whisper, and as soon as he has finished speaking he hangs up without giving Sherlock a chance to reply, leaving his last words lingering in the air. “So I would hurry, Sherly, if you want your little pet to come back to you just broken instead of shattered.”


	10. Chapter 10

Seb gives him something that makes him sleep after that, just another sharp little prick on the side of his thigh and he's out, sinking deep into blissful unconscious. He does not know what's going to happen next and some part of him doesn't _want_ to know; if he's going to die he wants to face it head on but this slow death by pain is almost more than he can take. So when the drug begins to wear off and he can feel himself waking up he tries to fight against it and resist becoming any more aware than he has to. It is too much to hope that he will be on the rug in front of the fireplace, warm and safe while Sherlock walks around in the background, and he's not.

He's in a flat of some kind and it's cold, his skin pebbled and chilled from the constant draft that seems to be coming from somewhere. He lifts his head and looks around blearily, trying to see if anything about the flat is even slightly familiar. The walls are darkly painted and the lights are off; the only way he can see is thanks to the television, which has been turned to a news channel. The woman on the screen is talking about a recent bombing at a restaurant called Angelo's, and she's showing a picture on the screen and it takes John a minute to recognize the man who had been tied up, the one who had looked at John with so much pity. Apparently he is the one who should have been pitied. His death, John knows, was not a swift one regardless of what the police and media think.

He moves his leg, testing, and feels a quiet thrill when it responds, even if it's somewhat jerkily. When he stops to listen he realizes there is no other sound save for the television. Either he is alone or - yes there, on the sofa barely a foot away, a woman is stretched out lengthwise, snoring loudly. She has dishwater blond hair and wrinkles and her clothing is stained and she smells like smoke. The dying embers of a cigarette flicker on the ground in front of her. Automatically John reaches over and tamps it out, and then he stops and stares at his hand, shocked that it actually responded to what he wanted that easily. Whatever they've given him is wearing off fast this time.

Because he has no idea how long he'll have this chance, he knows he has to act quickly and intelligently. Escape is the best option but he's not foolish enough to think he'll make it, not without help. It takes work to get his hands under him so he can lever himself up. And _oh_ , that’s a poor idea, he can barely contain the shriek of pain that wants to come roaring out. He bites down hard on his hand to muffle the sound as he sinks back down to the ground, gasping and shaking. His feet were numb before, but now the pain is immense and burning. He stays where he is for a minute, trying to work through it, taking slow and deep breaths. The woman on the sofa grunts and he freezes, relaxing only when she snorts and goes still.

Walking is out, then, but staying here is not. John grits his teeth and shuffles around until he’s on his hands and knees. His legs are acting funny and wobble when he tries to put his weight on them. It's frustrating. He crawls slowly towards the kitchen, his knees aching from the unaccustomed pressure, and he has to move slowly because he doesn't want the woman to wake up. In the darkened kitchen, he finds a cell phone on the table. He takes it with him, cradled in one hand as he crawls down the hall into what must be her bedroom. The front door is not a good option judging from the number of locks, but the fire escape is infinitely more appealing if only he could walk.

Her clothes are too small and don't fit but he finds a pair of boxers that are just a bit too loose, and those will do for now. After so long without clothing it feels strange to be wearing anything; his skin feels like it is being chafed by the material and he squirms absently as he opens the phone and looks at the screen. It powers up silently and it is only then, at that moment, that John realizes that he has no idea who to call. He doesn't even know the number to contact the police. Perhaps that information had been stored in his mind once, but now when he tries to search for it there's just a hole where he thinks it should be. And it doesn't help that the mobile's screen is utterly confusing, with all kinds of tiny icons that blur in front of his eyes and don't make any sense. He's half-tempted to chuck the stupid thing out the window.

But to do that would mean accepting death, and John is both smarter and more determined than that. He awkwardly pulls himself up onto the bed and clutches the phone with both hands. He hasn't had the opportunity to use a phone in the past six months, it's not like the homeless regularly get their hands on working mobiles, and his fingers feel clumsy as he dials. Because in spite of all that there is one phone number he remembers, even if he's not actually sure that calling it is going to help him. It's been burned into his mind after watching Sherlock spend hours on his website. His hands are shaking as he puts it to his ear and listens to the sound of the tone ringing through.

"Sherlock Holmes."

For a moment John can't speak and only a raspy little sound escapes him.

"Who is this?" Sherlock demands, and the frustrated exasperation in his voice is so soothingly familiar. Sherlock prefers to text. He’d gone into a long rant about it late one night when one of the members of the police wouldn’t quit calling instead of texting until Mrs Hudson had pounded on the door and told him that it was late, and surprisingly he’d actually quieted down after that, though he’d continued to shoot his phone such affronted looks that John had been a little amused at the time.

"Sherlock," John whispers. It's the first time he's spoken to Sherlock in days and he feels a powerful wave of yearning that weakens him all over, and it's a good thing he's sitting because if he hadn't been he might've toppled over.

There's a pause.

"John?" Sherlock sounds utterly dumbfounded. It doesn't last long. In the next second he's yelling at people in the background, issuing orders that make little sense to John as he becomes aware of the fact that it is not relief making him feel sleepy. He recognizes this slow, sluggish exhaustion. His body is succumbing to the effects of the drug again. He might've been alright if he hadn't expended so much energy by moving around, but he did and now the window seems like it is a million miles away. He distantly becomes aware of the fact that Sherlock is talking to him now, asking questions.

"John, where are you? Where is Moriarty? Are you in immediate danger?"

"Shh'lock," he says again, and it's hard to make his tongue form the word.

"John," Sherlock murmurs, like saying their names to each other is a private code only the two of them understand. Maybe it is, if he weren’t so exhausted he feels certain that he would remember. Instead his body slumps over and he can do nothing to stop it. The bed is infinitely more comfortable than the floor was and it strikes him that this is the first time in weeks that he’s been allowed to lay on something other than the floor. For some reason he finds that amusing and he can’t help snorting.

“John, it’s going to be alright,” says Sherlock. “I’m going to find you. You’re mine, do you understand? You belong to _me_ and no one can take you away.” His voice is low and angry and intent and it really shouldn’t be comforting to hear those sorts of things, John knows, and yet it is. He wants to make some sort of sound to let Sherlock know that he’s still listening. Possibly he does, because Sherlock adds, “We’re closing in on Moriarty. I’ll pay him back for everything he’s done. No one touches what is mine.”

John brushes his nose against the phone and breathes out in response. Somewhere in the flat there comes the sound of the door and footsteps and angry voices, followed by splintering wood and a gunshot. Sherlock’s voice rises in alarm but is cut off abruptly when a jolt of adrenaline gives John the strength to hit the phone, sending it skidding across the bed and onto the floor, all the way over underneath the dresser. He watches it slide out of sight just as the door slams open so hard that it bounces off the opposite wall and nearly hits the man in the door in the face. Pity that he reaches out to grab it in time, because John would have quite liked seeing Seb being struck by the door.

“He’s in here,” he says, and abruptly all of the commotion out in the sitting room stops. John can do nothing but watch as Seb crosses the room and stares down at him. His eyes are pale green but are no less frightening than Moriarty’s; they’re completely blank, devoid even of anger. The hand he wraps around John’s bicep is decidedly less so, the grip harsh and bruising as he drags John up by his wounded shoulder. The pain is ferocious at the first impact of his feet against the ground and his knees buckle immediately, leaving all of his weight hanging from Seb’s grip, and the combined force of the drug and the pain is enough to knock him unconscious.


	11. Chapter 11

John is getting very tired of waking up and not being sure where he is. This time, he is lying on a cold surface, one that gives off the sort of chill that seems to seep into your bones and stay there. His head is the only thing that is even remotely warm and that's because, he realizes distantly, he is lying on something else. He's not sure what it is. He's even less certain when he feels a hand stroking his hair, fingers combing through the dirty tendrils. The pressure should be soothing but it's not. The touch is very clinical, the nails raking against his scalp, and every hope that he might have had that it might be Sherlock anyway dies when the body beneath him shifts and a hand lands on his shoulder. The fingers are too short and stubby to belong to Sherlock.

Who, then? He is almost afraid to find out. He takes stock of the situation instead, putting off that moment for as long as he can. He's in a large room judging by the echoes, so he's been moved from the flats. Someone is pacing, and he can hear an odd sound that's almost like someone crying, but it's strangely muffled. And then there's a rattling, and it takes him a full minute to place the sound of glass windowpanes being struck by a wind so strong that they're shaking from the force of it. To be fair, it's not like 221b has much in the way of windows. Still, the sound is enough to fill him with hope. Even if he can't escape, perhaps he can alert someone to help.

Finally, he opens his eyes.

Moriarty smiles down at him. "Good morning, Johnny."

The breath freezes in John's chest and he goes very still. Suddenly he knows what it is like to be the fly trapped in the middle of a spider's web, how terrifying it must be to watch that spider close in and know that this is the end. He's lying with his _head_ in _Moriarty's lap_ , and he's never wanted a shower more than he does at this moment when he realizes that the bulge he can feel against his left ear is actually Moriarty's erection. The man is aroused and John is horrified and, pain in his feet be damned, he wants to get up and run for it. His muscles must tense or otherwise give some indication of the thoughts flooding through his mind because the hand in his hair abruptly tightens to the point of pain and he gasps.

"You've been a naughty boy," Moriarty says, somehow keeping the placidly sweet look on his face even when he's wrenching John's hair so hard some of it yanks free. "I heard from Seb that you couldn't be trusted after all, that you were actually trying to escape that nice flat where we left you. And to think, if it hadn't been for my careful attention you might've actually tried." His mouth quirks in amusement. "Of course, I say tried because you wouldn't have got very far."

"Please - " John says and he doesn't know why he says it, it just comes out. He tries to move his hands and realizes that they’re bound at the small of his back with what feels like ropes.

"Please what, Johnny? I'm trying to meet you halfway, here but you're resisting me at every turn. I'm really not sure what else I can do for you at this point. I mean, I know you're still holding out hope that Sherlock is going to come for you. That's just the loyal puppy you are. Commendable, really." Except it doesn't sound like Moriarty is complimenting him; he practically spits the words out. "You won't truly be ready for me to mould you until your spirit is broken. And at this point, there's only one thing that's going to do that."

John tries to think but his mind feels very scattered and sluggish. "What are you... planning?" he manages to get out finally.

"Oh, curious, just like your master. I suppose it doesn't hurt to tell you. I like playing games, you see, and for a long time Sherlock was my one true opponent." Moriarty actually looks dreamy. It's sickening. "He was so beautiful when he was focused. He really thought he could match me. I tolerated it, cultivated his talents when I felt like it, and we could have been something together. But Sherlock, he started losing interest. Met that bloody detective inspector and started solving other cases." His jaw tightens with anger. "He wasn't _mine_ anymore. So now, I've forced him to play a game with me. The ultimate game. I'm going to win, of course, and my prize will be Sherlock's death."

There is something inside of John that goes very cold and brittle at that bit of information. He knows he shouldn't care about Sherlock dying. Actually, considering what Sherlock has done to him thus far, he should be relishing the idea of the man's death. But he doesn't. And it's not just because Sherlock is his best chance to survive this madman. _He doesn't want Sherlock to die._ The realization is jarring and before he can stop himself he says, "But - how?"

"That's the beauty of it. Sherlock and I have a long history, though I'm sure that even you would have been able to deduce that by now. I know what intrigues him, what draws him in, and I made this game just for him. Five challenges." Moriarty spreads the fingers of his hand, like John requires visual aid to help him understand. "He's got five chances. The first pip was just him figuring out you were gone, and he took far too long at that. He's had two more since then. He failed each time. He's got two more, but he'd better be careful. Never know who might get caught up in the penalty."

"Penalty?" John repeats dumbly.

Moriarty seems to understand what he's trying to ask. "You were at the restaurant. Sherlock failed to figure out where you were in time and someone accidentally set a bomb off. And that block of flats - failed again, and oops! Another bomb." He bursts into giggles, like this is the funniest thing he can think of.

John stares at him in stunned silence, realizing that Moriarty is even more insane and coldblooded than he'd originally thought. He remembers seeing the newscast about Angelo's restaurant, and he remembers that woman who had been sleeping on the sofa - perhaps she hadn't been sleeping after all, now he thinks it was more likely she'd been drugged. He regrets not trying to wake her up because maybe they could have escaped together. Instead she had died just like Angelo, and all he could hope was that her death had been quick, that she had never known what was going on. If so, it’s probably more of a mercy than John is going to receive.

His laughter is slowing now, and Moriarty confidently tosses his head with a little smirk. “Two more chances,” he repeats. “And on the fifth one when he fails again, Sherlock will die, and you will belong to me.”

“I’ll never belong to you.” The words come from somewhere deep inside of John, but he knows that they are the absolute truth. He can live with Sherlock, perhaps someday he can even find a way to happiness there, but John will kill himself before he lets Moriarty have his way. He doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know when, but he knows that is how it will happen.

“Oh, you think so?” Moriarty lets go of his hair and pushes John off of his lap, not caring when John crashes roughly to the floor with a pained gasp. He leaps to his feet and strides arrogantly over to one of the windows, pressing a hand to the glass and peering out. Now that John is paying attention, he can tell that they are in some sort of attic, though not any attic that he has seen before. It is crowded with all sorts of different things, mannequins and clothing and trunks, and the windows look old and strange, and he can hear – is that _music_? He blinks, baffled, trying to put the clues together, and then he hears voices and clapping and he understands.

“A theatre,” he breathes.

“One of those places that Sherlock never comes,” says Moriarty, his face flushed with triumph. “There are only three more hours to go, Johnny. The clock is ticking down and Sherlock is just as bewildered as ever. Do you think your precious master will find you in time? If he fails, it will be just in time for the evening show.” He turns, looks at John, licks his lips. “When you’re mine, we’re going to have so much fun, I promise you that. You don’t even know what pain is, but I will show you.”

The implication of that is almost more than John can bear. His hands are shaking as Moriarty walks away, dodging the stacks of what John now knows are props until he’s on the other side of the attic with Seb. Moriarty says something and then grabs Seb by the shoulders, pushing him down until Seb falls to his knees and reaches for Moriarty’s belt, and John shudders. He manages to sit up, and even that simple act leaves him breathless, panting like he’s just run a mile. He tries not to watch, not to listen, as Moriarty begins groaning loudly.

The sun is pouring into the room through those windows, but it does little to heat the place and he shivers. He can’t help thinking about all of the people down below, the ones who are enjoying the show, never imagining that their end might be close at hand. A bomb – good lord. John doesn’t know what theatre they’re at, has no idea what theatres there are in London, but he knows that there will be a lot of deaths if Moriarty’s third bomb goes off.

“Sherlock, come on,” he whispers, drawing his knees in closer to his chest. “You can solve this... you’ve _got_ to solve this and stop Moriarty.” Because if Sherlock doesn’t, John doesn’t know who will.


	12. Chapter 12

The theatre burns.

Moriarty makes him watch.

Seb is the one who moves him just as the sun begins to go down. There is a car waiting by a back entrance, and predictably there is no one around as John is placed into the backseat. Moriarty slides in next to him, wearing a smug smirk that John really wishes he could punch off of the man's face. Seb gets into the driver's seat and they’re off, only they drive just down the street, far enough, John realizes, to not be impacted by the blast. Moriarty hums obnoxiously as he regards his mobile phone, waiting for the precise second when he will be able to say that Sherlock has failed again. And even though John knows that the chances of Sherlock succeeding this late in the game are slim, he still hopes. With everything that he is, he hopes.

At precisely one minute after six, Moriarty dials a number on his mobile, and then there is a moment of absolute stillness during which John can't bring himself to look away even though he knows that later he will wish he had. The theatre disappears in a flash of blinding light and a roar loud enough to make his ears pop. The car shakes as it is hit with the force of the shock, but remarkably stays in near perfect condition and he wonders, distantly, what Moriarty has done to the vehicle to make it capable of withstanding an explosion at such a close range. In the next instant that thought is gone from his head, replaced only by a stunned, spreading horror.

The theatre is gone, and so is half the block. What little remains are on fire, the flames raging high into the London sky. Moriarty lets out a satisfied, pleased sigh and sinks back against the seat. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he remarks to no one in particular. "Only it’s such a pity that they die so quickly when a bomb goes off. I'd enjoy it much more if we were able to prolong their suffering."

Appalled, John shrinks away from him as best he can, though the car is small enough that he is unable to go as far as he'd like. He knows, but doesn't say, that the chances of everyone in that theatre and the surrounding area having died immediately are extremely unlikely. There are probably loads of people who are dying right now, this very second, men and women and children who had no idea that tonight would be their last night, and the idea of it, of their pain, makes him want to throw up. Thank god the care is too far away to be able to confirm that, because he's pretty sure that if he could hear screaming or crying, or worse, he would surely go crazy.

They stay there until the authorities begin to arrive, and water starts to be sprayed on the fire - not to put it out, but to keep it from spreading in the wind. Only then does Moriarty lean forward and make a sharp motion at Seb. Quietly so as not to attract attention, they pull away from the kerb and join the other line of cars that are trying to get out of the way, blending in seamlessly. Passing the police cars streaming towards the theatre as they head in the opposite direction is infuriating. John wants nothing more than to kick the windows out and scream until they notice him, realize that the man who has masqueraded this is here, he's responsible, and the police can drag him off anytime they like thank you very much. He doesn't because Moriarty is watching him with a strange little smile that says he is waiting for John to do exactly that.

"Oh, look," Moriarty breathes suddenly, and he reaches out and grips John's shoulders, dragging him upright. He forcibly turns John's head until he's looking out at the street. At first John doesn't understand what he's supposed to be looking at, and then he _sees_ , and he can't stop himself from lurching forward with a pathetic little cry.

It's Sherlock. He's running towards the bomb site with a man John doesn't recognize. For some reason neither of them are in a car, they're on foot instead, and they both look harried. Sherlock, though, he also seems to be panicked, and he's talking rapidly, his mouth moving while the other man struggles to keep up with him and listen. John stares at him and drinks in the sight hungrily, realizing that this may be the last time he ever gets to see Sherlock. Moriarty has saved him from the blasts every time thus far, but next time is the last one: number five. He knows that if Sherlock doesn't solve the case before Moriarty's deadline, he will know exactly how the people in the theatre felt.

"I expect he's worried about you. Let's reassure him." Pulling back, Moriarty takes out his phone and snaps a picture of John’s terror. Smirking, he sends it to Sherlock. John watches helplessly as Sherlock stops running and takes out his phone. He's too far away for John to be able to see the look on his face when he sees the picture, but Sherlock's head snaps up and immediately begins scanning the cars and the buildings around them as Seb starts driving, the congestion on the road having finally cleared up to the point where they are able to get free.

"Ah, that was fun!" Moriarty declares loudly. "There's nothing like a good night out to make you feel relaxed, eh, Johnny? Now that Sherlock has conformation that you're still alive, I suppose it's just about time to send him the fifth challenge. Or maybe I should wait a little while, get him good and truly desperate. I think there are some fun things we can do in the meantime, don't you?" His dark eyes glitter as he looms over John. "You were such a good boy, after all, staying quiet the whole time and not even trying to get anyone's attention. If I didn't know better, I'd say you wanted to be here with me."

“Fuck you,” John says hoarsely. The words just slip out but they are, possibly, the most honest thing he has ever said.

Moriarty’s eyes narrow slightly and his hand comes up, gripping John’s chin cruelly. He lowers his head closer to John and then, unexpectedly, crushes their mouths together. The kiss is hard and bruising, and even though John does not remember ever having shared a kiss before he knows instinctively that this is not what a kiss should be like. And when Moriarty’s tongue invades his mouth, he gags and can’t resist the automatic urge to bite down. He knows it’s a mistake as soon as Moriarty jerks away from him, but it’s worthwhile just to be able to breathe again. He’s left panting and wishing that he could wipe his mouth to get the lingering taste out.

“Interesting,” Moriarty says. He touches his free hand to the tip of his tongue. It comes back stained with blood. A normal man would probably be outraged at the slight, but Moriarty seems to be more amused than anything else. “Here I was thinking that you would want a gentle touch. My mistake. Clearly you favour the harsh approach. I’ll remember that, Johnny.”

John swallows hard, bile rising in his throat because he’s just made this whole dreadful experience a hell of a lot worse. He looks away, unable to meet Moriarty’s mocking gaze anymore, and watches through the tinted windows as they drive further into London. Seb seems to know exactly where they’re going, so obviously Moriarty has a predetermined destination in mind. The drive doesn’t take long once they’re far enough away from the theatre that the roads are relatively quiet, and soon they’re pulling up in front of what looks like a fairly non-descript building. He wonders why Moriarty has chosen this place.

Seb gets out and comes around to John’s door. He opens it and looks at John and the message in his face is clear: John can walk or be carried, Seb doesn’t care which, but one is guaranteed to result in a lot more pain. It takes John a little effort to squirm out of the car with his hands tied but he manages. The ground is freezing against his bare feet, but the cold is a blessing in disguise: it helps to dull the pain on his throbbing feet. He limps as he walks, trying to keep up with Seb and Moriarty. The enclosure turns out to be a pool of some sort, and John experiences a moment of brief panic at the thought of being thrown into the pool with his arms still tied. Watching someone die like that sounds exactly like the sort of thing Moriarty would love.

“Sit,” Seb orders.

Regardless of the fact that they’re in the middle of the floor and a bench is only feet away, John sits. He knows he can’t afford to make either of them angry at this point. He watches in nervous silence as Seb cranes his head back and looks up at the ceiling – no, not at the ceiling, at the seating that’s overhead. It lines the edge of the pool, a perfect place to hide. Moriarty waves his hand and Seb sets off immediately, and for the first time John notices he’s carrying some kind of rectangular black case. He disappears quickly into the shadows and John looks to Moriarty, realizing that the two of them are now alone together. This does not bode well.

“Do you know why we’re here, Johnny?” Moriarty does not wait for him to respond. He loves to hear the sound of his own voice too much for that. “This is where Sherlock and I originally became involved. My first kill. He figured me out faster than I anticipated. That’s when I knew he’d be something special.” He heaves an exaggerated sigh. “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity for everything to end where it all began. I suppose I am rather nostalgic in that way.” He’s smirking, now. “I hope you like it here. This is where your master is going to die.”


	13. Chapter 13

Time, in spite of the fact that John has little to occupy himself aside from staring blankly into the water and trying not to wonder about what Moriarty did to gain Sherlock's attention in the first place, goes fast. Moriarty waits a full hour before he contacts Sherlock with the last challenge, and then he sits back and waits. The only thing he has with him is his cell phone as far as John can see, but he must have some method of monitoring Sherlock because every so often he begins cackling to himself. The sound is aggravating and grates on John's ears until he wishes he could wrap his hands around Moriarty's neck just for the simple pleasure of knowing that he won't have to hear it again.

Distantly, he's aware that it's cold - very cold, his body is shivering now and again, the boxers he's wearing are not nearly enough to help keep him warm. The one consolation is that his feet don't hurt when they're so cold that he can't feel them. He feels weak, too, and he knows that it has been a very long time since he last ate. Or slept, really. Being drugged, even to the extent that he has been, is not the same as actual sleep. Once or twice he even feels himself beginning to drift off, and he has to force himself to wake up. He doesn't know how he knows, but he is aware that falling asleep while being very cold is a bit not good, not to mention that Moriarty and Seb are a little too close for him to feel at all comfortable being that vulnerable. 

Or at least, he thinks that Seb is close - the man never actually comes back, and even when John cranes his head back he can't see him. The seating upstairs is encased in darkness for the most part, as the lights haven't been fully turned on. For all he knows, Seb has been up there all along watching over the two of them. His mind flashes back to that black case and he shivers. Possibly with a gun. He finds it doubtful that Seb would be willing to leave Moriarty and John alone, even if John doesn't look like he's capable of doing anything more than what he's doing. It's the only reason that he hasn't already tried to attack Moriarty: he knows that he won't get close.

"Yes!" Moriarty exclaims. The sound of his voice after hours of stark silence seems impossibly loud, and John flinches without meaning to. Moriarty appears not to notice, though of course he does, leaping to his feet and pacing back and forth excitedly. "Good news for you, Johnny boy. It seems that Sherlock is going to come through for once - and here I thought that he might actually let this ending in a truly boring way. Your precious master is on his way. That means it's time to get you ready."

John eyes him but doesn't have the heart to ask what he means. His unspoken question is answered when Seb appears out of the shadows, startling him badly, carrying a vest of some kind. He kneels down in front of John and begins strapping John into the vest, which - John swallows hard - looks deadly. He briefly contemplates punching Seb in the face, actually feels his fingers beginning to curl into a fist, and freezes only when Seb grips him unexpectedly by the neck. Those long, muscular fingers curl perfectly around his throat, the span of one hand nearly long enough to make it all the way around. Seb's thumb fits comfortably over his Adam's apple, not pressing hard quite yet but with enough intent to make him go still.

"Don't," Seb says, very softly, and there is something in his face that tells John he is not kidding around. The fact that the hand tightens around his throat only underscores the warning. He thrashes because he can't help it, because he can't breathe and his lungs are tightening up and his vision is going dark, but Seb's grip only keeps tightening until Moriarty looks up and notices what's going on, mere seconds before John would have passed out.

"Oh Sebby, leave off. He's not worth your time, precious. I want him to be around to see his master die. Then you can have all the fun with the puppy you want," Moriarty says, looking rather more amused by the situation than John is comfortable with.

Seb looks deep into John's eyes. It would make John feel a little better if the man would show some kind of expression, even if it was amusement at his pain. But no, Seb's face remains a composed mask as he slowly releases John's neck. John's eyes flutter shut as he gulps in air frantically, and this time when Seb continues putting the vest on him he doesn't fight. He stands up when Seb drags him to his feet and hobbles as best he can over to one of the benches, collapsing onto the seat gratefully. He doesn't need the muttered command to remain where he is; he doesn't think he could make a run for it anymore even if he wanted to. He sits there and watches as Moriarty gets up, stretching like a cat, and saunters off, and then even Seb disappears. 

He is alone, to all appearances, and yet he knows that he is being watched. So he sits there, waiting and staring at nothing, until the door at the far end of the room opens. John turns his head slowly and realizes that the new arrival is none other than Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective himself. Sherlock is wearing his black coat, the one that seems to be a favourite of his, and his dark curls are askew from wind and running. There's a flush spread over his cheekbones, and anyone else might think it's worry or concern but John knows it for what it is, knows it's excitement, because Sherlock has been _challenged_ by this and in the end John is nothing more than a pawn, a puppy, caught up in a fight between two masters who don't really care about him.

"John!" It only takes a moment for Sherlock's eyes to alight on him. He takes a half-step forward and then pauses, his jaw tightening fractionally as his brain catches up with his eyes and he begins to fully understand what it is he's seeing. John stares back at him in exhausted silence.

"Sherlock," he whispers at last, his voice hoarse and hardly recognizable. There are a lot of emotions bubbling up inside of him right now, elation and terror and rage and god they're all so bloody strong, each fighting to have possession of his mind, and he really doesn't know what to do anymore. It's all been too much and he just wants, god he wants to just sit down and have Sherlock be nearby so that he can be safe and he fucking _hates_ that but he can't stop himself from wanting it.

"Good lord," Sherlock mutters, the words only audible due to the echoing nature of the room. His otherworldly eyes have brightened with what might be anger, John can't really tell. Sherlock takes a step forward, looking away from John for the time to examine the rest of the room. His hands twitch when he gazes at the pool, but he gives away no other indication that the room is familiar to him. He says, "Where is he, John? Where's Moriarty? I know he's here, I can tell by the way that you're sitting."

“I don’t know,” John says, and it’s the honest truth. 

Sherlock looks at him hard, as though suspecting that he is lying, and John just stares back at him and lets the bastard read whatever he wants. And it must work because something in Sherlock’s features softens ever so slightly and he nods, just once. “I know you’re here, dear Jim,” he says, pitching his voice louder. It echoes until it sounds as though there are a hundred Sherlock's speaking all at once. “You’ve led me on quite the chase, but I’ve come to let you know that you’re not quite as smart as you believe you are.” He takes a step forward, and then another, and another, the sound of his shoes obscenely loud against the tiles.

When he’s about half a dozen feet away from John, a door opens on the far side of the pool and Sherlock stops. John has to close his eyes against the sudden, irrational flood of frustration that nearly brings him to the brink of tears as Moriarty says, “Ah ah, Sherly, I wouldn’t get too close. You didn’t fail to _observe_ that your puppy is wired up, did you? One wrong move and he’ll take this whole building up along with him.”

“I find that hard to believe, considering that you’re in it,” says Sherlock.

Moriarty just smiles. There must be something that both of them are missing, because he looks supremely unconcerned about the bomb. "I just wish that it could've ended differently, that's all. I brought you a puppy because I thought it might help to guide you back to me. But instead all it's done is turn you the opposite way and make you even worse than before. You don't play right, Sherlock. This cooperation with Scotland Yard has made you incredibly boring. And that means you have to die."

"Is that so," Sherlock murmurs, looking far too composed considering the situation. "Does that mean you're breaking the rules, then? After all, I did solve your last challenge. I made it to the pool."

"I'm just so changeable, I guess," Moriarty says lightly, rolling his shoulders back. He puts a finger to his mouth and taps it against his bottom lip. "Now, I could let your puppy go, but I think there's something poetic in watching master and pet die together. It just seems fittingly... sentimental." He sneers the last word.

"I'm so glad that you agree." Sherlock cocks his head slightly and it seems to be some sort of signal. A red beam slices through the darkness and splays itself across Moriarty's chest. “As it turns out, that is exactly what I have planned for you.”


	14. Chapter 14

Stand off. Those are two ugly words when combined: a couple that John has never really stopped to consider the ramifications of. But he knows what they mean, now. They mean two extremely intelligent and possibly psychotic men staring each other down while he sits between them with a live bomb attached to his person. He shivers and tries unsuccessfully not to flinch when the movement draws the attention of both Sherlock and Moriarty back to him. Being stared at by the two of them is a hundred times worse than just one of them. With a single glance, in the span of less than a second, John has been repeatedly laid bare and dissected. Worse yet, he has been disregarded as _unimportant_.

"Really, Sherlock," Moriarty says, rolling his eyes and turning away from John. It's a physical movement, using his whole body to say 'you do not matter' as he twists towards Sherlock. "Is this pet of yours truly worth all of this effort? I wasn't expecting you to get attached so quickly and yet here you are."

Contrary to Moriarty, Sherlock's gaze lingers for a moment longer on John. "Perhaps we are not so very similar after all," he says after a succinct pause. "You do have a choice here, Jim. I know you are intelligent enough to realize that. Or at least, I hope you are." A slightly condescending smile quirks the edge of his lip. "I'm certain you've got an escape route all planned out."

"Ah yes, but has it been blocked off by your loyal big brother? Never thought I would see the day when you would ask him for help."

"I didn't ask."

"But you didn't protest when it was offered, either."

Sherlock doesn't respond and the silence lingers long enough for John to know that Moriarty is quite correct in that respect. He remembers Mycroft, of course, and the aura of danger that the man had exuded even though he seemed so very ordinary. Is Mycroft here, then? Once again John searches the seating overhead, looking for something or someone, but he can't make out anything except for shadows. There could be a hundred men up there waging a war against each other and he wouldn't know the bloody difference. It makes him feel utterly helpless, and that is not a feeling he has particularly enjoyed over the last few hours, days, weeks, however long it's been since Moriarty took him from 221b.

When putting the vest on him Seb had to cut his hands free, and John takes a moment to be thankful for that as he rises. It takes a good deal more effort than it should to get his feet underneath him, to stand up. John has to rest his good hand against the wall for support, because his legs are visibly shaking and it takes most of his strength just to keep standing. "Do it," he says to no one in particular.

"What's that?" Moriarty says.

"John?" Sherlock is frowning now.

"Do it," John repeats more firmly, lifting his head to stare at the both of them. "I don't care what happens, but I'm _tired_. Being a part of your bloody game - I never wanted this." His voice breaks ever so slightly as he thinks about all of the things that have happened that he didn't want. His opinion hasn't counted for much yet. He doubts that will change now. But just getting the opportunity to have his say makes him feel a little better. "The two of you think that you're all that. You think you're so _fucking_ smart, better than all the rest of us, but it's not true. Sometimes I think you deserve each other." 

Moriarty gives him a hard look at that, a searching gaze that says he's trying to figure something puzzling out. "Interesting," he breathes at last, looking delighted. "I knew you were loyal to Sherlock, Johnny, but I had no idea you'd fallen in love with him."

John flinches slightly, like Moriarty has hurled an accusation at him. It's not true, or at least he doesn't think it is. There is a very real part of him that hates Sherlock Holmes, and that part would like nothing more than to see Sherlock dead for what he has done. But at the same time there is another part of him that needs Sherlock, and that part wants desperately to curl up at the man's feet and go to sleep. That part is very strong and would like to hug Sherlock, would like the man's hands all over his body, wants to know what it would be like to be kissed by Sherlock, wants it like he wanted to breathe when Seb was choking him. Is that love? Can it be anything except for some twisted form of obsession that has taken root deep inside of him, one that he doesn't think he can get rid of even if he tries? John's not even sure anymore, but he knows he doesn't want Moriarty to be the one who figures it out.

"How sweet," Moriarty says now, clearly sensing a weakness. "Sherlock, you didn't tell me things had become so serious! Naughty, leaving things out. I suppose the real question is, do you feel the same way for your little puppy?" And he looks at Sherlock with this challenging little smirk.

Sherlock looks back at him with eyes that are narrowed in hatred, but before he can respond - and honestly John isn't even certain he wants to hear what Sherlock might say - John begins prying at the front of the vest. There's a zip and some ties and his hands are shaking, fingers stiff with cold, but he's determined to get the damn thing off. He doesn't care if Moriarty detonates it in the process, or if John accidentally sets it off, or if someone (likely Seb) shoots him, as long as he doesn't have to stand here for one moment longer listening to the two of them. He just can't take it anymore. 

"John!" Sherlock says, sounding shocked and - good lord - a little excited.

"Fascinating," Moriarty says at the same time, and he actually backs off a step. His wide dark eyes are glittering with a sick sense of intrigue. "Sherlock, your puppy is proving to be more than I expected. Suddenly I'm rather pleased that I didn't kill him after all. Johnny could be a good addition to my men once I break him of this annoying habit of being loyal to you."

"You won't break him, you won't have the chance," Sherlock hisses, and just as John starts to unzip the vest Sherlock reaches into the pocket of his trousers and takes out a gun. A bloody _gun_. John has no idea where the man got it, but he can tell instantly that Sherlock isn't used to holding it. His grip is all wrong and Moriarty doesn't look afraid, he looks _amused_ , and that's it John's had enough.

In one quick move, muscles burning with the sudden use after hours of being stationary in the cold, he jerks the vest off and flings it in Moriarty's direction. He meant to aim for the bastard's face, no longer caring whether that gets him shot, but it doesn't get that far. The vest trembles, and there's a familiar sound from somewhere above their heads, and then there is a split second of perfect silence. Someone shot the _bomb_ , John realizes in a moment of clarity, and then there are long arms around John's waist propelling him in the direction of the pool. He doesn't even have a chance to take a gulp of air before water closes over his head, cold and churning, and he panics, fighting to get away, terrified by the thought of drowning.

A strong hand seizes his face, forcing him to look up, and past the pain and blinding fear he realizes that he is being clutched against Sherlock. The detective's eyes are filled with warning, a silent command for him to subside, and god help him John obeys. He slumps willingly against Sherlock's body, shaking all over, and concentrates on keeping his mouth shut and ignoring the increasingly panicked signals from his body. Sherlock's arms remained tightly wound around his body, strong and impossible to ignore, preventing him from doing anything else. He couldn't fight his way free even if he wanted to, and John's not all that sure that he wants to.

God knows how long they remain down there, hunched at the bottom of the pool while the world turns to fire above them, but finally Sherlock pushes off and lets them rise. There are black spots blooming in his vision by the time his head breaks the surface, and John gasps for breath greedily. The air tastes hot and gritty, like ashes, and he looks around through stinging eyes to see that the rest of the building is gone. Debris, charred and smoking, litters the edge of the pool. Some of it has fallen into the pool, and John belatedly realizes that it's a miracle neither he nor Sherlock were crushed.

"He's gone," Sherlock says grimly.

The words take longer than they should to compute. John stirs listlessly, uncertain if he's allowed to move his head from where it rests on Sherlock's chest, tucked beneath the man's chin, knowing that he doesn’t really want to. "What's that?" he mumbles finally.

"Moriarty. He's gone, escaped. He'll have had some sort of plan to make it out of the building, I know, and none of the snipers will have been able to see him through the smoke."

John closes his eyes. It sounds bad, is bad, and he knows that at some point in the future he will be very alarmed, possibly panicked, by this news. But right now he is so dreadfully cold and Sherlock is so very warm, and he doesn't even try to stop himself from curling further into Sherlock's hold. With his fingers tightly enfolded into the fabric of Sherlock's coat, confident at last that he is safe for the time being, he allows himself to sink into blissful unconsciousness.


	15. Chapter 15

The first time John wakes up it is because he is being held by someone and they are moving. His first thought is that somehow Moriarty and Seb have returned, or that the meeting with Sherlock is going to turn out to have been nothing more than a fantastic dream, but almost immediately he realizes that's not possible. The arms around him are careful, and in a different world he would be willing to call them tender. They hold him closely against a firm chest, protecting him from the cold. He can feel the heat emanating from that body and it feels good, though it does little to help warm his chilled skin. The moving stops and he nuzzles closer, a soft whimper slipping out from between his lips.

"Sherlock," a voice says from far away. It is a familiar voice in some ways and John feels as though he has heard it before, but he can't quite place it. "He is meant to be resting. You are doing him a disservice by interfering with the doctors and nurses like this."

"Mind your own business, Mycroft." This voice is one that he can't forget: Sherlock. "He is mine, and I will do whatever I like with him."

Mycroft, for John has indeed identified this man as Sherlock's older brother, lets out an aggrieved sigh. "For goodness sake, do not let the hospital or the police hear you talk like that. I really don't want to have to bail you out of jail again so soon after the last time, Sherlock, really." There is a brief pause, and John sleepily imagines that the two men must be glaring at each other. They seem to do that a lot. Then Mycroft adds, "I allowed you to keep him because I thought he would be a stabilizing influence on you, one that would remove you from Moriarty’s clutches. John Watson is more than he appears. But if this is how you are going to treat him then I will take him away. I'll have him admitted to a veteran's hospital, and you will never see him again."

"No!" Sherlock's grip tightens. 

"Then you are going to have to be more responsible!" Mycroft says, and he sounds for all the world like he is admonishing his younger brother about the care of a pet. Then again, he is. "You can't go gallivanting around on cases and forget to feed the poor thing, Sherlock. _You_ may be capable of going without food or sleep for days on end, but most people are not. No, do not give me that face - I know you have not deleted the most basic facts about the human body, not when it could prove valuable for one of your cases. You either trust John to the point where you let Mrs Hudson care for him, or you begin taking him along on your cases where you can keep him close by and do it yourself."

"I don't want to," Sherlock says. It sounds like he's pouting.

"Sometimes you have to do things in life you don't want to do. This happens to be one of them."

Sherlock mumbles something unintelligible, and John shifts and lets out a low whine of protest. The arms around him are now verging on too tight, and the pressure is aggravating some of the bruises on his body. With a soft, startled sound Sherlock's grip abruptly loosens, though he keeps his arms around John. "You won't take him away," he says, childishly defiant.

"I would rather not, no. But I will also not allow you to kill him through your own neglectfulness," says Mycroft. There is a soft tapping sound that John can't identify, and when he speaks again his voice has turned coaxing. "This could be beneficial for you, Sherlock. You've seen John's background. You know what he is capable of. One quick lesson with a gun will let us know whether the amnesia has affected his body memory. Judging by how you two met, it hasn't. He could be a help to you on your cases, provide some form of safety when you insist on dashing off by yourself."

There is a long pause. John moves closer to sleep. He can feel soft gusts of breath against his cheek. The smell is sour, but not so bad off that he wants to turn his head away. Finally, Sherlock says in a nearly inaudible voice, "I'll think about it."

Mycroft says something else, but John can already feel himself drifting away. By the time he wakes up again, he has forgotten most of the conversation that transpired about his future. His nightmares are too filled with images he doesn't really understand: blood, and tears, and pain, and the urgency to do something about it. He dreams about a young man with an arm blown off, begging him to do something, and John can only stand by and stare helplessly. He dreams about laughter, the crack of a gun, the ease with which human flesh disintegrates, and jerks awake with a strangled gasp.

“Easy there,” an unfamiliar voice says, and John recoils from the hand that has reached out to touch his shoulder. He finds himself staring up at an older man with hair gone silver. He has kind brown eyes and lines of exhaustion carved too deeply into his face, but he smiles at John and drops back into the chair, keeping his distance. “Doctor said you’d be waking up right about now.”

John looks at him, and then glances instinctively around the room. It’s small but private, with several machines that he does not know the name of. Most of them are attached to him. He’s in the hospital, then. “Who are you?” he asks hoarsely.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” says the man. As soon as he says it, John recalls Sherlock mentioning the name, remembers seeing this man running beside Sherlock towards the bomb site at the theatre. “How are you feeling, John?”

“Fine,” John says automatically, even though it’s a blatant lie. The longer he’s awake, the more pain he is becoming aware of. His feet especially are in complete agony. 

“Fine,” Lestrade repeats with a raised eyebrow, clearly sceptical. “Right. Well, I’ve come to get your statement. I can understand if you don’t feel up to talking with me yet, but this is pretty important.”

“No, I can - ” He struggles to push himself up into a sitting position. It takes much more strength than he’s used to. Lestrade has to visibly fight to hide an expression of pity, and finally he reaches out and touches the button to raise the top portion of John’s bed. John wants to protest, but relaxing back against the pillows and catching his breath takes precedence over all else. He closes his eyes briefly and can’t keep himself from asking the question burning at his mind. “Where’s Sherlock?”

Lestrade seems surprised by the question. “Mycroft made him go home for a few minutes,” he answers. “He’s been haunting your bed ever since they brought in.” And the look on his face makes it obvious that this questioning is not purely for investigative purposes: he’s dying to know what’s going on between Sherlock and John. “So tell me, John. How did a friendly bloke like you end up in the hands of Jim Moriarty?”

It occurs to John for the first time that this is his chance. He can tell Lestrade everything from start to finish: how he’d been living on the streets minding his business when he met Sherlock, how Moriarty had kidnapped him and Sherlock had decided to keep him, the strange existence he’s lived since then. Lestrade’s a member of the Yard; he’ll _have_ to help no matter what his affiliation with Sherlock is. This is what he has been waiting for ever since a boot in the ribs first woke him up and he rolled over to see a gun being pointed in his face. He won’t have to worry about Sherlock Holmes ever again.

But the words won’t come, and John’s mind feels strangely muddled the longer he stares at Lestrade. There’s a voice in his head begging him to tell Lestrade the truth, absolutely _screaming for it_ , but there is another voice that is just as strongly telling him to remain quiet. Hasn’t he dreamed about being back with Sherlock? That voice insists. Isn’t that all he’s wanted since Moriarty broke into 221b? His hands clench involuntarily into the covers, because he knows that voice is _right_ : God, even now he wishes that Sherlock were here, and the fact that man isn’t is enough to make a cool sweat break out across his forehead. 

“John,” Lestrade says, looking alarmed. “Should I get one of the doctors?”

“I’m fine,” John says again, trying to hide his trembling hands. “I was - homeless. When I met Sherlock.” The words come in unsteady bursts. “He was. In a fight with some blokes. I. I stepped in. I used to be a doctor. Don’t like seeing anyone hurt if I can help it.”

Lestrade keeps looking at him for a long time before he nods slowly. “So you became one of his confidential informants then,” he says.

No, John wants to say. No, Moriarty kidnapped me and then that bastard decided to keep me like I’m an animal. He won’t let me wear clothing, and I’m not allowed to sit on the bloody sofa, and there are days when he forgets I’m even alive, much less that he hasn’t fed me. He’s molested me, and he treats me like a pet, and that’s before he got me kidnapped again. I spend my days trying to ignore him, only somehow he’s wormed his way in and now there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to leave him even though I know that’s wrong, and god help me I don’t know what to do about it because all I want is _Sherlock_.

What he actually says is, “Yes.”


	16. Chapter 16

John spends much of the next hours, days, weeks sleeping. Often it is medically induced, as the medical personnel fight to get his severely weakened body back up to a less alarming level. Every time he wakes up there is food waiting for him and disapproving, no-nonsense nurses hovering over him to make sure that it gets eaten. He doesn't see Lestrade again, which is fine by him, but the fact that he also does not see Sherlock is altogether less fine. He can't help wondering, drifting between dreams of war and Moriarty's smirk, if Sherlock has decided that he is too much trouble to deal with. The idea is daunting enough to form a cold little ball of ice in his belly, one that no amount of hot broth or toast or tea is enough to melt.

He dreams about Moriarty a lot, now. Sometimes he has nightmares about being left in a building with a bomb somewhere inside. Sometimes he dreams that Moriarty set the bomb off as soon as Sherlock walks into the room. But by far, the worst dreams are the ones where Sherlock lies dead in front of them while Moriarty fucks him raw, his laughter the only sound filling John's head as Sherlock's blood spills across the ground and stains his hands and knees. Those are the dreams that John jerks awake from, his heart hammering so quickly that he feels dizzy, and remains conscious until a nurse slips into the room a minute later and eases a needle into his IV line. He tries to fight against the darkness, but sleep pulls him under every time.

This time he has been pinned to the wall by Moriarty and the man is threatening to make him into a puppy for real, saying that he'll break John's ankles so that he can only crawl and maybe even give him a tail, when a strangely gentle sensation wakes him. John can tell who it is, who it must be, even before his eyes are open, but now he wonders if perhaps he has slipped into another dream and just didn't notice. Is that possible, to dream within a dream? Because the hand stroking his hair is long fingered and smells of odd chemicals, and the material pressed against his right hand is heavy but expensively, finely wrought: the best that money can buy. 

_Sherlock_.

"You're awake, John," Sherlock says, his voice deep and rumbling and amused. "Open your eyes."

John does, allowing his eyes to flutter open slowly and focus on the detective sitting beside him. Sherlock's hand stills but he does not take it away, and the weight resting against the crown of John's head is comforting. "I didn't think you were coming back," he says.

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "Clearly you have been in here too long. The medication has begun messing with your mind and making you even more idiotic than normal," he drawls. "Honestly, John. How many times have I told you? You belong to me. Just because Moriarty decided to stick his nose in where it doesn't belong does not change that."

It's hard to decide how he feels about that, and the confliction is exhausting. John puts it aside to ask, "Where have you been?"

"Searching for Moriarty. Unfortunately, we haven't found him." Sherlock's face darkens into a scowl. "I've looked everywhere I can think of, but he's disappeared. He knew I'd be searching, of course, but I hadn't anticipated just how well he would be able to hide. And Mycroft's men are utterly _useless_ , the lot of them, why my brother insists on surrounding himself with such incompetence is beyond me. He must do it because he enjoys feeling smart, because there is no way that any of those idiots can actually be helpful!"

The familiar sound of Sherlock devolving quickly into a rant is comforting in a bizarre way, and John's eyes drift shut again. He is only half listening to Sherlock as he goes on and on about Mycroft, and some woman named Anthea, and then he starts in on Lestrade and the rest of the Yard. He has heard it all before; he thinks he could probably mouth it word for word. Like this, he thinks he can actually fall asleep and stay that way without any nightmares. It's not the flat, it's not him on the floor with Sherlock in his chair and John's head against Sherlock's thigh, but it will do. It should disturb him, that he longs for the position which was once humiliating, but he is sliding towards sleep so quickly that it doesn't even matter.

Then the hand on his head tightens, fingers biting into his hair, and Sherlock whispers a sharp, " _John_."

Like a single word from Sherlock is enough to put a dam in place, the exhaustion recedes and John looks up at him sleepily. Sherlock's eyes are bright and intent, his frustration forgotten in the wake of whatever is captivating him now. It occurs to John for the first time that their faces are very close, and without his permission his eyes drop to examine the full pout of Sherlock’s mouth. He has a divine mouth, Sherlock, with the sort of cupid’s bow that most women would die for, and John finds himself thinking about the kiss from Moriarty. It must show on his face because Sherlock exhales slowly.

“What did he do to you?” he murmurs, and it is clear that he is not really expecting an answer. His eyes rove across John’s body, reading the flesh to find his own. “He threatened you. Told you that he would rape you when I died… but he didn’t touch you - no, he did. He _kissed_ you.”

“Yes,” John says, swallowing roughly. The memory is one of the worst he has, above even Seb’s hands tightening around his throat. 

Sherlock moves quickly, all unique feline grace, and pulls John into a kiss. Their mouths meet slowly and John jumps because somehow he wasn’t expecting this, and he feels foolish for not having anticipated Sherlock’s reaction. He stays stunned at first, letting Sherlock investigate and learn where Moriarty has touched him, and then starts to kiss back, his lips moving tentatively, not afraid to push the boundaries but unsure of what is allowed. The taste of Sherlock’s mouth, his tongue, leaves John shivering by the time that Sherlock finally pulls back just a little bit. 

“John,” he says, and there is something wild in his eyes.

“Sherlock,” John half-gasps, half-groans, the name falling carelessly, and he arches up towards Sherlock without any conscious decision on his part. He needs contact, needs Sherlock to erase every touch of Moriarty from his body, needs this even when there is a part of his mind vehemently protesting. 

Permission has never been necessary, but Sherlock reacts like he has been waiting for it. His hands are everywhere, suddenly, divesting John of covers and sliding beneath the hospital-issued pyjamas he has been wearing, peeling the clothing off and throwing it away as though it is a personal insult. John has the feeling that it will be a very long time until he sees any clothes again, but he can’t bring himself to care when fingers are tracing his flesh, mapping the new wounds and scars that line his skin. Sherlock shifts them around until he is straddling John, his long legs on either side of John’s torso, and then his tongue joins in.

It is very difficult to remain quiet, particularly when Sherlock gently grips his wrists to keep him from biting down on his hand. Soft, whimpering cries escape John’s mouth, humiliating little sounds that should bring nurses running but don’t, and he knows that he is not a normal hospital. He squirms beneath Sherlock’s steady, reassuring weight as a hot, wet heat suckles at his nipples, his belly, his hips and thighs. His feet are too heavily bandaged for Sherlock to investigate, and John is hardly conscious of voicing his thanks when, after a cursory examination of the bandages, Sherlock moves on instead of unravelling them.

Little by little, inch after inch, Sherlock deconstructs him, erasing the hidden marks left behind and putting his own searing touch into place. It shouldn’t be arousing, John thinks, this _branding_ , but oh god it is. His breathing is heavy and ragged by the time that Sherlock finally slides back up his body and coaxes him to turn over onto his stomach so that he can examine John’s back. The pressure of his cock against the sheets is a jolt and John gasps for breath, squeezing his eyes shut as hands and tongue slide across his shoulders and down the length of his spine. His lungs seize helplessly as Sherlock reaches his arse and shamelessly parts his cheeks, exposing him to the world. 

At the first touch of Sherlock’s tongue _there_ , John’s hands fist and he moans loud. “Sherlock!”

“Yes, John?” Sherlock says, the two words thick and heavy. “You’re not begging, are you?”

Jesus. John remembers, suddenly, the last time Sherlock had touched him and the promise he had made. _Someday you'll be begging for that._ He clenches his hands into the sheets, pressing his face into the pillow so hard it hurts. The bastard. The fucking _bastard_. Why is it that a part of him yearns for Sherlock’s touch so desperately? Why can’t he hate this man, the bloody psychopath who is turning everything John knows on its head? A strangled sound catches in his throat, thoughts dissolving, when Sherlock licks him again, flattening his tongue against John’s backside and moving up agonizingly slowly, and the feeling is exquisite. 

“Sherlock,” he says again, almost a sob, and then Sherlock is there, clambering up beside him and picking John up into the circle of his arms. Nothing Moriarty has done has been enough to make him cry, but this: this, finally, is enough.


	17. Chapter 17

It is easy to tell that Sherlock is not used to offering comfort. His arms remain awkward and stiff, back tense, even when John slumps against him, pressing his wet face roughly against Sherlock's shoulder. But they are warm and real, and offer him the solid human touch that John has been craving for longer than he can consciously remember. Humiliating though it may be, he cannot stop the tears from sliding down his face, just like he cannot stop himself from curling into Sherlock. His hands are shaking and their next kiss, when Sherlock tilts his head up and persistently seeks his mouth out, tastes of salt. 

"John," Sherlock murmurs against his lips. He licks John's cheek, catching one of the tears with his tongue, and swallows. "You taste sweet."

John makes a sound that can be interpreted as either a laugh or a sob or possibly both and shakes his head, his hands clenching into the fabric of Sherlock's coat. He doesn't know what to say or do, but that's alright: Sherlock does. The first touch of that warm palm sliding around his semi-erect shaft makes John jump, unconsciously pressing harder against the firm body holding him so tightly. It feels good in a way that it didn't before, and he can tell Sherlock is already aware of that. The shame, the guilt, the utter humiliation: all of those emotions are so very far away right now.

"That's right, John. I know what you need. Let me give it to you," Sherlock coaxes, guiding him into another kiss before John can speak. It remains strangely gentle and chaste, this kiss, soft with a tongue tracing his bottom lip and teeth nipping so lightly that he's not wholly sure he even really felt them. Sherlock licks his way into John's mouth greedily, as though trying to eradicate any trace of Moriarty. 

The hand on John's shaft tightens and pumps slowly, like an afterthought, and slowly John can feel his cock starting to thicken. He opens his eyes and, past the haze of tears, sees Sherlock staring back at him. In the dim light his eyes look almost silvery and captivating and John can't look away, not even when Sherlock breaks the kiss. They're so close together that their breaths mingle, lips brushing, and the tears on John's face are leaving wet smears against the curve of Sherlock's magnificent cheekbones. John lets his eyes flutter shut again as more tears build and slip free, a soft sound catching in his throat as Sherlock's clever fingers catch on a particularly sensitive spot.

"From now on, I'm not going to leave you alone," Sherlock murmurs. He has John right where he wants him, enfolded in his lap like a child, one arm looped firmly around John's waist. He lets go of John's cock for a moment, relishing the whimper of protest, and smoothly unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans. He takes John's hand and presses it between his thighs.

Hot, hard, but silky. John's breathing hitches as he timidly explores. He doesn't remember most of his life, of course, but he still feels like this is the first time he has ever had his hand on another man's erect penis. Sherlock is longer than he is, with a definite curve to the left and a plump head that leaves stickiness across the palm of John's hand when Sherlock tugs his underwear aside. He could pull away, John thinks, but he doesn't really feel any desire to do so. Here, like this, he feels safe for the first time in days. Moriarty may have escaped, but he cannot touch John at this moment. Sherlock's arm around his waist is thick and strong, alternately possessive and protecting, and John leans against him and shivers.

Sherlock makes a low sound of satisfaction and says, "I'll keep you with me. When I go on crime scenes, you can come with me. I didn't think you were ready until I spoke with Lestrade and he told me what you said to him. You had your chance to escape, John, and you didn't. You _chose_ to stay with me, you know. I wasn't sure if you would." He shifts his hips and brings their cocks together, covering John's hand with his own.

A moan bubbles out of John before he can stop it and he squirms, wanting more. It's hard to focus on what Sherlock is saying, but he hears most of the words and he thinks that Sherlock is probably right. Though he has not made a conscious choice to stay, it says a lot that he did not even try to seek help. If Lestrade had shown up at the door a month ago, John would've tackled him to the floor in an effort to escape. And now he has looked an officer of the law in the face and lied for Sherlock Holmes. He is well and truly ensnared, and this time it is partially by his own doing. 

"You'll love the cases," Sherlock continues, "it will be adrenaline and running and you telling me how fantastic I am." His grin is wide and smug as he forces John's hand to start stroking them both. John gasps and widens his grip to encompass both shafts, because oh god he didn't know pleasure like this existed. It's so different from before, when he couldn't let himself enjoy it because he wasn't supposed to. This is, it's different, and he doesn't know why but it is. 

"Sherlock," he whimpers.

"Shh, I know John. I'm going to take care of you, you'll see. You'll never want for anything else as long as you are mine." The words are spoken softly in a deep voice that make them sound like the god-given truth, and they're accompanied by a tight squeeze that makes John see stars. "I won't forget to feed you anymore, and you'll be exercised every day, and perhaps I’ll even allow you to sleep in my bed. Mycroft won't have the chance to take you away from me. You're mine. You're mine, and I'll keep you from now until the day that we both die."

There is a part of John that is panicking, and it is quite loud all things considered. This part is listening very carefully to Sherlock and it is seeing any chance for escape growing smaller and smaller. But just like John's chances of escape, this part is also growing smaller. It is so much easier to twist his head into Sherlock's neck and moan and whine and let the man guide their hands, sending tingles of vibrant pleasure through his body. They are touching all over, so many points of contact, and John is trembling because it's too much. No one has ever touched him like this, and it is so good it hurts, and he still craves more.

Sherlock’s hand tightens again and John’s arches against him. The friction is sweet, delicious, but not enough to make him come. “Together,” Sherlock continues, “we’ll hunt down Moriarty. I have contacts that he doesn’t know about. I can find him, John.”

The hand around his waist shifts, sliding down over the curve of his arse, inching between. John’s hands clench in the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt at the sensation of a finger probing lightly at his entrance. He’s never had anyone touch him there before other than Sherlock’s tongue, and the sheer erotic sensation is enough to make him tremble. He feels utterly overwhelmed, completely surrounded in Sherlock, and it’s doing his head in. A broken sound escapes his throat when Sherlock’s finger presses in, the rough rubbing of dry skin a burn that somehow serves to enhance the pleasure tingling through his nerves.

“Oh,” he whispers, because the sensation of being filled is altogether new and _different_ and it is just one more way Sherlock has control. When he tries to move, squirming away, the finger follows and slides in further. It feels impossibly large and long, spearing him in place. 

“Shh, John,” Sherlock murmurs a second time. “Just relax. I won’t hurt you.” The unspoken ‘not anymore, not the way Moriarty did’ lingers in the air and John squeezes his eyes shut and makes a conscious effort to relax his trembling muscles. Sherlock’s hand remains still for several minutes, allowing him to get used to the feeling, but their joined hands over their cocks never stop. 

“S’alright,” he gasps out finally, and Sherlock actually purrs as he twists his finger around, searching for his target. He knows that he’s found it when John moans suddenly and wiggles against him, cock twitching in a favourable way that nearly makes Sherlock’s eyes roll back.

“ _Yes_ , John, good boy.” Now that Sherlock has found that little spot, he manipulates it ruthlessly, running the pad of his finger across the gland in broad, sweeping strokes. John can do nothing but take it, squirming and crying as his senses are overloaded with pleasure. He didn’t know it could be like this and god it’s exquisite, the feeling so strong that it is bordering on painful, and he needs more - he _needs_ , he presses his face harder into Sherlock’s shoulder and begins rocking his hips deliberately, alternately fucking himself on Sherlock’s hand and pumping his cock into their joined ones.

“More,” he whines, the words a half-sob, unable to take the onslaught, he can feel himself starting to break, “More, Sherlock, please, I can’t - it’s too much, I need, more, please -”

Sherlock’s eyes go bright and he ducks his head, hissing, “Now, John, _now_ , I want you to come for me -” as he bites down on the side of John’s neck and begins to suck hard. 

John is not conscious of the sounds he makes or the things he says as he comes. It feels as though the world washes out into brilliant white, and his edges go soft and melted with heat, and he thinks he might be crying again but he can’t even care. His cock pulses, spilling semen onto his belly and Sherlock’s shirt, and a minute later Sherlock groans raggedly and comes as well. They are both breathing hard and John slumps against him uselessly, so spent that his muscles are shaking and it feels like it takes every bit of strength just to remain awake. His throat burns as Sherlock pulls away and surveys him, a cocky smirk edging at his mouth. 

“My John,” Sherlock says with satisfaction, and licks away the last few tears.


	18. Chapter 18

Two days later, after a few more invasive tests, John is cleared for release on the condition that he remain on bed rest for three more days and that he take it easy for another week after that. His feet have come a long way while he was at the hospital - further, he thinks, than they probably should have, which leads him to wonder if perhaps he was given care that may not be available to the general public yet - but it is still incredibly painful to walk or even stand. On the morning he is released, one of the nurses fetches him a wheelchair and helps him into it after he finishes getting dressed. The clothing - a jumper and a pair of trousers he has never seen before - are new and stiff against his skin; they feel oddly restrictive and he's not sure how to take that.

The nurse pushes him out of his room and down the hall, and John takes the chance to look around. This is no ordinary hospital, he realizes. It looks more like a hotel, very posh and exclusive. He recognizes a handful of patients from having seen their faces in the magazines while he was on the street. He shudders, thinking about the expense that must have gone into his treatment and time here. How will he ever pay for it? But, considering how the little session with Sherlock had gone, perhaps he's not supposed to pay for it. There is a good chance that Sherlock considers a veterinary bill as part of proper care for a pet, and it seems as though Mycroft has schooled him in that quite carefully. The idea is humiliating, and yet at the same time he's grateful for it because he hasn't got the funds to even think about paying them back.

Sherlock is waiting for him outside, standing by a cab. He makes an imposing figure, swathed in black and his mouth set into a disapproving frown. "It's about time," he says crisply. "I was beginning to think that you had got lost."

"We came as quickly as we could, Mr Holmes," the nurse retorts. "Here he is, all yours." She waves a hand over John, who flushes when Sherlock arches an eyebrow. He braces himself for the twin flares of pain that will be racing up his feet as soon as he stands, and as he pushes himself up it is all he can do to lock his legs into place so that they do not collapse underneath him. God but it's agonizing, the scars and tender flesh of his feet combining into a wave of burning that grows steadily worse with every second he remains standing. It is a relief to collapse into the back of the cab and pull his legs in after him; he is shaking and sweating just from that short distance.

"221b Baker Street," says Sherlock, climbing in after him. He shuts the door and the cab pulls away. John glances over at him as his body starts to calm, noting the impassive face that tells him so little. There is no sign of the Sherlock who had held him until he drifted off to sleep that night. 

He looks away, out the window. Some part of him had not thought that he would ever have the chance to see London again, believing that Moriarty would kill or have him killed before he did. He watches the scenery greedily, relishing the sight of so many things he's taken for granted. It takes him a good five minutes to realize that Sherlock is watching him, and this he only notices because he can see the detective's reflection in the glass. The skin on the back of his neck prickles with awareness now that he knows, and he swears he can feel Sherlock's eyes on him like a physical touch. They have not discussed what happened - why would they? - but John can't stop thinking about it, about how he gave himself over so easily.

"I thought you'd be out looking," he ventures finally, unable to stand the silence any longer.

"You were leaving today, and although Mycroft offered an escort to bring you home," Sherlock says, "I didn't trust him not to mess up."

"I'm sure I would've been fine."

"You are my responsibility." The words are clipped, short, like a phrase Sherlock has often repeated to himself in order to drill it into his memory. John can't help turning around to give him a doubtful look, and silvery eyes pin him to the seat. "I told you I am going to take care of you, John. Until you are well enough to come on a case with me, I won't be leaving Baker Street."

"But you -" John stops, uncertain of how to take this. Coming from Sherlock, who grows so easily bored when he is confined, it is probably almost enough to be a declaration of affection. But he also wonders if this means that Sherlock will be pressuring him to walk before he is ready. John can handle many things, but the thought of doing the kind of running around that Sherlock seems to do when even just standing in one place is almost more than he can take… it’s fairly horrifying. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, unable even to run away if Moriarty comes calling,” Sherlock drawls, rolling his eyes. “Be quiet, John. I have already made up my mind.”

John opens his mouth and then closes it again, recognizing the obstinate look that means Sherlock will not be derailed. He goes back to looking out the window instead, but now his joy in the scenery of London has been mostly eradicated. With every building they pass, he wonders if Moriarty is hidden inside. It seems unlikely that the man would give up, considering how determined he had been that Sherlock would die and John would become a part of his collection. He shudders at the thought. Coming at it with a clear mind free of exhaustion, starvation, dehydration and pain, he knows that he would be better off killing himself if it ever comes to that.

The cabbie pulls up in front of a familiar sight: 221 Baker Street. Sherlock peels a handful of bills from his pocket and passes them over before pushing the door open and gracefully climbing out. John slides across the seat, pushing aside thoughts of Moriarty in preparation for what he’s about to do. If he recalls correctly, having only been in and out once, there is a set of stairs leading up to 221b. He grits his teeth and braces a hand against the door, using it as a means of support as he levers himself slowly to his feet. The pain makes black spots dance in front of his eyes, and he blames that as the reason he does not see Sherlock moving until it is too late.

A startled squeak escapes him as an arm stretches out and curls around his shoulders, pulling him in close. There is movement, Sherlock bending down, and then pressure against the back of his knees. John’s legs obediently give in, but he does not fall far: Sherlock controls the momentum as John crumbles against him and then lifts, bringing John’s body in against the support of his chest as he straightens back up again. John is left feeling lightheaded from the sudden change in position and altitude, and he clutches instinctively at Sherlock’s coat. 

“Relax, John,” Sherlock’s voice rumbles, sounding very amused. “I’m not going to drop you.”

The memory of the last time Sherlock told him to relax sweeps over John and he _knows_ that he’s blushing even without looking at the smirk on Sherlock’s face. “W-what are you doing?” he says, proud of the fact that his voice only wavers a bit. He’s never been carried like this before. It’s oddly disorienting. He feels like he should be yelling at Sherlock to put him down, but when has that ever done any good?

“You can’t make it up the stairs without help,” says Sherlock, like it should be obvious. In spite of the extra weight, he certainly seems to have no trouble. The door opens before they get there, revealing Mrs Hudson. She lets them in and clucks over John, trailing behind them as Sherlock takes the stairs with an ease that belies the fact he is carrying someone. They sweep inside of 221b, and the sight of the familiar room - once so hated - is enough to make John’s breathing hitch.

Sherlock takes two steps inside the door and sets him down on the sofa. John freezes, feeling even more out of sorts. He has the instinctive urge to slide to the floor. But surely, since Sherlock put him here, it’s alright? He chances a glance up at the detective and realizes that Sherlock is watching him, lips faintly quirked. “Jumper,” is all that he says.

Clothing. Right. John looks at Mrs Hudson, knowing that Sherlock will not ask her to leave. She has already seen him naked on numerous occasions, but undressing in front of her is too humiliating. Fortunately she seems to understand and, after one last comforting smile, she leaves, closing the door behind her. John’s hands shake as he reaches for the hem of the jumper and pulls it over his head. He sets it down on the sofa beside him, breath quickening slightly. He is too aware of Sherlock’s gaze as he lifts his hips, wincing slightly, to ease the trousers and pants down his legs. He sets those aside, too, and now he is naked of his own will, a fact which occurs to him only after Sherlock has grinned.

“Good boy, John,” he purrs.

“No, I -” But he did, didn’t he? John stares blankly at the clothing, realizing that he did not even _question_ Sherlock’s command to do something which is degrading and embarrassing and hated, much less protest. He can feel his hands beginning to shake and he clenches them tightly in a useless effort to hide it. What is this madman doing to him?


	19. Chapter 19

Three days later, Sherlock is beginning to drive him mad. Which is a polite way of saying that if John could walk without cringing, he might actually dredge up the strength to hit the man over the head with a beaker and put everyone out of misery. Mrs Hudson has been avoiding the flat as much as she can, only appearing three times a day with breakfast, lunch and dinner, and John doesn't blame her one bit. The experiments that Sherlock is working on in the kitchen are beginning to reach the stage where he's wondering if they're going to be crawling at some point.

John has spent the past three days on the sofa. It still makes him feel odd to be on the furniture, and yet the first time he swung his legs over the side and started to stand Sherlock had turned on him and demanded to know what he was doing. The sudden, sharp attention had been enough to make John fall back before he realized what he was even doing, and when Sherlock deduced that he needed the loo the detective had actually _carried_ him down the hall. Even more humiliating, he’d stood there while John did what he needed to do and then carried him back. 

Every time he thinks that Sherlock might be starting to see him as human and not just a bloody pet, something happens to prove otherwise - and he has no idea what to do about it. John closes his eyes and lets out a slow sigh, wiggling his toes and wincing only slight at the resulting flash of pain, like being pricked on the bottom of his foot with a needle. He’s still naked, but it no longer seems to matter - not until he hears the footsteps on the stairs. It takes him nearly a full minute to realize that the footsteps don’t belong to Mrs Hudson. She shuffles, particularly when her hip aches, and these are hard and fast and excited.

Lestrade, his mind realizes as his eyes fly open. Somehow being like this in front of Mrs Hudson isn’t so bad, since she’s so tactful about it. With Sherlock, it’s beginning to seem almost normal. Even Mycroft, with his intimidation tactics and bargaining using John as a playing chip, is - well, not fine, but okay. But he does not want to be seen as Sherlock’s pet around Lestrade. The idea is enough to make a cold sweat break out across his skin. Lestrade still looks at him like he’s a normal bloke, like John is just a homeless man stupid enough to get caught up with Sherlock Holmes. He can’t bear, he doesn’t want, oh god what will he think -

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is cool, imperious, and against his will John finds himself going still. He remains tense, though, his hands balled up at his sides. He can’t help glancing longingly at the blanket that has been carelessly tossed over the back of the sofa, the one that he is allowed to pull over him at night since he is no longer close enough to the fire to sleep without getting a chill. In one quick, sure movement Sherlock rises to his feet and snatches the blanket away just as a knock comes at the door. It opens a second later before either of them can respond.

“Sherlock, why haven’t you been returning my texts? I’ve got a case -” Lestrade stops abruptly as he fully processes the scene in front of him. He takes in John, sprawled naked on the sofa and nearly crimson from humiliation, and Sherlock standing calmly beside it.

“And I told you,” Sherlock says as though there is nothing at all unusual, “that I won’t be leaving the flat until John is well enough to come with me. Judging by the rate at which his feet are healing, it will be approximately two more days, possibly three, before he will be able to walk without any significant pain.”

“Right,” Lestrade says slowly, eyes darting between them. This is clearly new territory for him, and he’s bursting with questions he doesn’t dare ask. “So you’re just going to _ignore_ this case until your flatmate is better? No offence, John,” he adds, “but this case is one that could use Sherlock’s attention.”

“It’s fine,” John says through gritted teeth. God this is fucking embarrassing. Somehow it’s even worse than being made to sit at Sherlock’s feet when Mycroft was here. Lestrade is a regular person, not twisted like Sherlock and Mycroft. John knows that he’s getting the wrong idea, and worse he knows that he has only himself to blame. If he’d just told Lestrade the truth when he had the chance - 

“You may bring me the case file and send pictures, and I will look to see what completely obvious things that you’ve missed.” Sherlock says it like he’s granting them an enormous favour. He tosses the blanket away and adds, “If you can keep Anderson from mucking the scene up the way he always does, that is.”

Lestrade turns away from John completely and rolls his eyes. “He’s just doing his job, Sherlock, honestly. Anyway, I’ve got the case file with me. Here, have a look at it.” He advances towards the kitchen table and Sherlock rushes over to stop him before he touches anything that might go up in flames, and John takes opportunity to squeeze his eyes shut and wish desperately that this was not happening.

I’m not actually a pervert! He wants to scream, wants to hang it around his neck in glowing red letters so that no one can ever mistake it. Is it better or worse that Lestrade has walked in when he’s on the sofa instead of on the floor? How long before Sherlock does something to make the truth perfectly obvious? And make no mistake, Sherlock will. He may even do it unintentionally, because when he gets going everything else sort of falls to the wayside and he works on automatic and it’s terrifying to think that this thing between them is becoming a _default state_.

He doesn’t even realize he’s breathing too rapidly until Lestrade looks back at him. “Are you alright, mate?”

“He’s fine. John, stop it,” Sherlock says sharply.

And damn it, his traitorous body does it again. His breathing begins to even out, though he can’t stop himself from trembling a little. Lestrade keeps looking between him and Sherlock with a slightly confused expression, but Sherlock ignores him entirely from that moment on. He speaks only to Lestrade, voice lowered so that John can’t hear, and subtly encourages Lestrade to do the same by turning his back towards John and holding the file up so that Lestrade has to twist to be able to see it. They spend several minutes in deep, heated discussion before Lestrade snatches the file and hurries over to the door.

“Thanks, Sherlock,” he calls out. He’s halfway down the stairs before he remembers, and the sheepish call of, “Bye John!” comes floating back up.

A heavy silence hangs in the flat as the door shuts below them. John feels sick. Sherlock turns to face him slowly, and there is a glitter in his eyes that suggests he is not pleased. This theory is only further supported by Sherlock closing the door and flipping the lock, something which he rarely does because he seems to think that Mrs Hudson should be available at any time. But instead of speaking he remains silent, and the weight of his stare is like a physical brand on John’s skin. There is something inherently unfair about this.

“You can’t - that was awful!” he bursts out, unable to remain silent any longer. “Lestrade was… the way he looked at me, like he thought we were playing some weird sort of sex game, it was -”

“Enough.” The word is cold and commanding and effective. Sherlock stalks closer as he continues, “You seem to be under the misguided assumption that this is some sort of game to be played at your leisure. It is not. You belong to me, John, and I will treat you as I see fit in front of whomever I wish. If that means I want you on the floor presenting your arse like a bitch in heat while Lestrade or all of Scotland Yard is in the room, you will do so.”

John’s mouth drops open. Nothing comes out except for a strangled croak. In spite of himself he can’t help imagining that very scenario, and a heated flush makes him shiver. 

“I believed that you had become accustomed to being my pet, but apparently I misinterpreted the evidence.” It’s hard to tell what annoys Sherlock more, that or the idea that he was wrong. “And it seems that _you_ require a reminder of just who is in charge.”

Oh god, John thinks. His heart is pounding wildly. He’s never upset Sherlock like this before. Before Moriarty Sherlock mostly ignored him in favour of the cases and, although he had pondered the idea of escape a few times, he’d never actively done anything to provoke the man. He supposes that they would have reached this point eventually if Moriarty had not interfered, but now that it is here he feels cornered, trapped like the wild animal Sherlock thinks he is, and he’s got no idea what to do about it.

Part of him wants to fight, wants to throw something at Sherlock and point out that he’s not a pet, thank you very much, and while he might have succumbed to some behaviour in the past that makes Sherlock think otherwise he is very much _not_. But as always, the feeling is not without an equally strong counterpart. There is another part of him that wants to submit to whatever Sherlock is planning: to just let it happen and re-establish the balance between them so that Sherlock will stroke his hair and maybe even kiss him again. 

The conflict of wanting to run and wanting to stay is a struggle, and he swings his legs off of the sofa but does not make to rise. He watches tensely as Sherlock moves around the sofa to stand in front of him. “So what do you think you’re going to do?” John asks, mouth quirking in a flat smile. “Starve me again? Leave me here while you go off on a case?”

“Not at all,” says Sherlock, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “I told you I would not forget to feed you, and I won’t leave you behind for Moriarty to collect again. No, as it happens Mycroft forced me into a rather long lecture about what constitutes punishment when it comes to pets that misbehave. I believe twenty smacks should do it.”


	20. Chapter 20

John's heart begins to pound so suddenly and so furiously that he actually feels relieved he is sitting, because the influx of blood to his brain is making him feel lightheaded and dizzy. He stares up at Sherlock, momentarily struck speechless. There is a strange light burning in Sherlock's eyes, and the strength of the emotion is completely at odds with everything he has come to know about Sherlock up until now. For a moment, he is overwhelmed with pictures flooding into his mind: the image of Sherlock seating himself on the couch and bending John over his knees is appealing in a way that John thinks it should not be, but not like this. Never like this.

He opens his eyes and takes in a deep, fortifying breath. "If you choose to punish me like that, I will tell Lestrade everything the next time I see him," he says flatly. He allows no emotion to creep into his voice, deliberately keeping his tone and face as empty as possible. "I think that Lestrade will believe me if I tell him the truth, but even if he doesn't I will never stop trying to get away from you, Sherlock Holmes, and someday I will manage it. Not even you will be able to keep an eye on me forever, and no matter what you think you know about London I'm certain I could find a way to hide from you and Mycroft."

Sherlock rocks backwards on his heels like he's been struck. His eyes widen slightly. "John..."

"I mean it," John says, sensing that there is a brief opening here, a possible weakening in Sherlock's ire. "You told me once that you don't think I'm a toy to be broken, and that’s why you took me from Moriarty. You said I was meant to be a - a pet." His jaw tightens briefly with the effort it takes to force the hated word out into the open. "Maybe Mycroft told you that pets have to be punished, but I'm not -" He struggles with how to phrase this properly in a way that Sherlock will understand. He knows that Sherlock hates being told what to do, so... "There are ways to get me to do what you want that don't involve humiliating me in front of people that I am later going to have to face if you want me along at crime scenes. And if you're angry at me, if you think I've done something wrong, you don't have to spank me like a child. Remember, I'm here because I _chose_ to be. I can change that at any time."

His words seem to hang in the air for several minutes, and John can't help watching Sherlock anxiously. He’s got no other escape plan, and he's half-afraid he's said too much, pushed it too far, and half convinced that he hasn't said enough. The thing about Sherlock is, there seems to be a very fine balancing act between what makes him listen and what crosses the line. Mycroft is an expert at walking this line, and that's probably where this whole mess came from in the first place. John appreciates not being left alone to starve, he really does, but if this is what comes of Mycroft's interference - Sherlock trying to treat him like a stroppy toddler - then he really wishes Mycroft had just fucked off.

It surprises both of them when Sherlock begins to laugh.

It starts slowly, the detective's shoulders shaking minutely, and then the deliciously low sound works up through his throat and out of his mouth. John stares at him in genuine surprise, amazed by the sight that is Sherlock Holmes laughing, eyes flashing silver and mouth open and face all wrinkled up. He can't honestly recall seeing Sherlock laugh before this moment. He's been pleased, yes, mostly by the introduction of a new case or the pleasure of solving one, but this? This is - John doesn't have the words for what this is, but he does know that it causes a warm feeling in his chest. The tight band around his ribs eases a bit, and he has the feeling that he has just successfully escaped being spanked by the skin of his bum.

"Interesting," Sherlock murmurs as his fit of laughter begins to slow. He shakes his head slowly. "Every time I think that you have become boringly mundane, John, you prove me wrong."

"Er, thank you I think," John says, wondering if he's just been paid a compliment. Wondering what this compliment might cost him later on, because from the look on Sherlock's face there is no compliment higher than _interesting_. His breath hitches a bit when Sherlock suddenly stalks closer, swooping down over the sofa so that his frame is draped across John's body. He takes most of his weight on his knees, but there is no question that he is very close and impossible to ignore.

"My brother," Sherlock says quietly, the words clearly meant for John alone, "has never managed to keep anyone by his side. He was married, once, and his wife divorced him before their first wedding anniversary. She disappeared after that. I'm not sure where she went, North America, perhaps. Certainly not far enough to escape Mycroft's influence." His hands span John's neck, closing gently around his throat in approximately the same way that Seb’s had. Curiously, John does not feel afraid. He breathes easy, looking up at Sherlock and waiting for him to continue. "He has not dated since then. He does not bring pets or toys home; he prefers to be completely alone. He has told me a good many times that caring is not an advantage."

Good god, John wants to say, what kind of a fucked up family do you have? But that doesn't seem like the sort of thing to say to a bloke who could choke him to death with one quick squeeze. He swallows instead, a chill running down his spine when Sherlock's thumbs brush over the front of his throat at the movement. 

"There have been several times in my life when Mycroft tried to drive the meaning of that home to me." Sherlock says these last few words more to himself than John, and for several seconds it’s like he’s not even conscious of the fact that John is still pinned under him. Suddenly, though, his eyes sharpen with focus and he releases John’s throat to lightly skim his hands across John’s shoulders. “But you, John… I find it intriguing that even though you don’t even remember who you are, you still struggle to fit in with society’s expectations. If it hadn’t been for Lestrade you wouldn’t mind being punished, would you?”

John’s mouth drops open with an instinctive no that gets stuck. This close, it feels as though Sherlock is taking up the whole world, and he can’t lie, and he can’t help shivering when a slow smile crosses Sherlock’s face. He wants very much to deny it, but at the same time he thinks again about what it would be like. The hot kiss of Sherlock’s palm against his arse, the way he’d feel Sherlock’s arousal beneath his ribs. How _open_ he would be to Sherlock’s perusal, splayed out and unable to stop this madman from doing whatever he wanted. The resulting flush of pure lust that scalds through him leaves him speechless.

“I knew you were perfect.” Soft fingers slide beneath his chin, urging his face up. In the next instant Sherlock is kissing him, hot and wet and sweet, and John can only do his best to keep up. He has no bloody idea how they’ve gone from Sherlock being furious at him to this, but he’s not going to protest. His hands, which have remained at his sides until this point, finally move, sliding briefly across Sherlock’s arse before trailing up his shoulders. He digs his nails in lightly and Sherlock groans his approval.

“Sherlock…” John breathes out as they separate.

“Mmm, John. Don’t ever forget that you belong to me and you _will_ do as I say,” Sherlock says, his voice rough and husky with a lusciously low timbre. “Lestrade and I have been acquainted for several years now. He will think nothing of having seen you on the sofa; he’ll simply attribute it to one of my weird experiments.”

It takes John a moment to realize that this is Sherlock’s way of trying to _comfort_ him. He regards the man incredulously, and Sherlock smirks.

“Besides, you should know that I would never want to share you with someone else. Lestrade is different. He is also mine, though not in the way that you are.”

“So basically,” John mutters, fighting back a shiver, “you’re a fucking possessive git and you think you can just collect people.”

Sherlock chuckles softly and kisses him again instead of responding. John sighs and settles into the kiss, surprised but pleased when Sherlock opens his mouth and allows him to explore. They kiss for several long, lazy minutes, and it is truly one of the most erotic experiences of John’s life. He suspects it would be the case even if he had the rest of his memories. Like this, pinned so securely beneath Sherlock, he feels utterly surrounded. He could drown in this man far too easily, and at this point he’s not even sure that he would care.


	21. Chapter 21

As it turns out, it is roughly two more days before John can walk around without feeling as though he'd rather cut his feet off than take another step. He still can't stand for long periods of time, and running is completely out of the question, but he can manage a fair sort of hobble around the flat and Sherlock deems it acceptable. Thank fucking Christ, John thinks, because if he has to endure one more day of being locked up in the flat with Sherlock he is going to _lose his bloody mind_. Far from ignoring him, the detective has switched all of his attention to John, as though John is a particularly fascinating experiment that he suddenly wants to have detailed notes available on. 

There is nothing quite like being given a bath by Sherlock Holmes and knowing that every inch of your body is being slowly deconstructed. John was so turned on after that, it took every ounce of determination he possessed to keep from begging Sherlock to touch him. Because Sherlock hasn't touched him beyond the occasional kiss since the day Lestrade came to visit. Everything between them has been oddly chaste, even the bath. Sherlock had cleaned his genitals every bit as thoroughly as the rest of him, of course, but his touch had been clinical instead of designed to arouse. Not that it helped, of course, since John's body seems to be developing a pavlovian response to Sherlock's touch and the damned man knows it too.

So John is relieved to hear that instead of another day in the flat, they will be going to a crime scene. Not only is he eager to get outside, he's curious to see exactly what it is that Sherlock does. He's never really had the opportunity to see Sherlock in action, and he's more excited about it than he wants to let on. "Is this the same case that Lestrade brought over earlier?" he asks, deliberately not thinking about what, exactly, had happened on that visit. Sherlock has not brought up the idea of punishment again, thank god. 

"No. It seems that even Scotland Yard can catch a murderer when pointed in the right direction," Sherlock replies absently, never taking his eyes away from the microscope. Earlier he'd procured several strands of John's hair, as well as a blood sample, and whatever he sees must be fascinating because it's occupied him for a whole thirty minutes and counting. John isn't sure whether that's a good thing or not. "This is a different case. Serial rapist. They've been trying to catch him for weeks now. Lestrade's been refusing to ask for my help, but now he's realized that he needs me after all."

"Why wouldn't he ask for your help?"

"Something about me making the last victim I had contact with cry." Sherlock stands suddenly and sweeps out of the room. 

John stares after him for a moment before shaking his head. "Can't imagine how you'd ever make someone cry," he mutters, sipping the last of the milk from his bowl. He's sitting in front of the fire on his rug, and the flames are warm against his bare back. Now that his feet are mostly healed, he's not allowed on the furniture anymore. Well, Sherlock hasn't exactly said as much and John hasn't tested it - he's saving that for the next time the detective pisses him off. He could fall asleep here quite easily now that he's had a good breakfast, but it seems there won't be time for that.

"Here, John." As Sherlock enters the room, he tosses a handful of clothing into John's face. "Get dressed. We're leaving."

Get dressed. Right, because going outside means he needs to be wearing clothing. John's not really sure when the idea of being naked all the time started to become normal. He thinks that should worry him more than it does. He puts the vest and shirt on first. They're new, made from soft cotton that doesn't rub against the lingering bruises on his back and belly, which he appreciates. He has to stand up to put on the pants and jeans, both of which are also brand new. As expected, they also fit him perfectly. It's been a very long time since John wore clothing that actually fit, and it is the first time he can remember that he has worn clothing which were new and bought just for him. 

He skims his hands lightly down his legs, marvelling at the way that the denim conforms to his thighs. It feels stiff, but when he lifts his leg experimentally he can feel the fabric loosening up. The waistband is snug against his belly, yet when he breathes out it expands just enough to make sure that it's not uncomfortable. He can sit without feeling like he's been trussed up. He clambers somewhat awkwardly to his feet and realizes that Sherlock has been watching him test out his new clothing. John flushes and looks away, uncomfortable. Sherlock always looks impeccably dressed in bespoke suits that were literally made for him, and John... well, he found his last pair of trousers in a bin. 

"Thanks," he says awkwardly, quietly.

For a moment, he thinks Sherlock is about to say something about how as a responsible pet owner, this is part of John's upkeep. Surprisingly, he doesn't. The detective merely nods and holds out something else. A jacket. Not the sort of ridiculously expensive coat that Sherlock is always wearing, but a thick down jacket in a deep blue that looks warm. Feels warm too, John notes when Sherlock comes around behind him and helps him to guide his arms through the correct holes. The flat isn't cold, but he shivers anyway as the fabric is pushed up around his shoulders. God, what he would have given for a jacket like this while he was on the streets. There had been several nights when he'd been too alarmed to risk falling asleep, too caught up in the knowledge that he might not wake up again if he did. He swallows.

"One last thing," says Sherlock. And there is. Boots. John's feet ache just looking at them, but he ignores the phantom sensation and determinedly slips on socks before the boots. They're also new, a little stiff, but as comfortable as anything could be when he straightens up from tying them and takes a tentative step. 

"Alright," he says, even though Sherlock likely already knows, could probably tell from a thousand different invisible cues that John would never pick up. He zips up the jacket as Sherlock opens the door and strides out, fussing with his scarf. John follows him out, realizing that there is actually one more surprise: a set of gloves in the pocket of the jacket, black and clearly meant for him as the fingers wouldn't be long enough to accommodate Sherlock's violinist hands. John puts them on and flexes his hands experimentally. Something else that would've been welcome before.

Sherlock has already got a cab waiting for them by the time that John makes it downstairs. Walking out the front door is - weird. The last time this happened he'd been slung over Seb's shoulder, semi-conscious and not at all sure of what was going to happen next. His heart speeds up a little as he shuffles over to the cab and climbs inside, and he only relaxes when Sherlock has got in next to him and shut the door and they've joined the string of traffic. He is highly aware of the warmth emanating from Sherlock's body.

It is tempting to ask where they're going, but he knows by now that if Sherlock bothers to answer him it will be the sort of answer that doesn't make any sense and leaves him with more questions than before. Sherlock is already preoccupied, his fingers dancing over his phone, and that leaves John to wonder what will happen when he sees Lestrade again. Just the thought of what Lestrade saw makes him squirm with remembered humiliation. What will the man think? Will he treat John any differently? Maybe going to this crime scene _is_ a mistake...

He glances over at Sherlock when the detective lets out a snort. "What?"

"Scotland Yard is made up of _idiots_ ," Sherlock announces, shortly before he begins stabbing at the buttons on his phone hard enough to risk breaking it.

John lets out a slow breath and closes his eyes, shaking his head with a rueful smile. Yeah, okay, not going to the crime scene is definitely not an option. He doesn't think he can take another day with Sherlock alone in the flat. Because if he has to endure one more minute of being taken apart by those bloody keen eyes or being touched when it supposedly means nothing, he's going to do something unforgivable like jumping Sherlock, and he's not at all curious to know what Sherlock might do if he thinks that he's got John's full support.

The cab pulls up just short of the bright lights and milling police officers, and Sherlock hands the cabbie a wad of bills as they both get out. He strides across the pavement like he belongs there and John does his best to keep up. They see Lestrade first, standing with a woman John doesn't know, and Sherlock doesn't even bother to greet the inspector, just walks on by. Lestrade watches him go and rolls his eyes while the woman scowls. She turns around and catches sight of John and frowns even deeper.

"Who're you?" she demands. "No civilians allowed, this is a crime scene."

"He's with me," Sherlock says without turning around.

"You can't just bring friends around here!" The woman says. She smirks derisively and folds her arms. "Oh, what am I saying? A freak like you doesn't _have_ friends. Did he follow you home, sir?"

"No. I'm his - colleague," John says, and suddenly he wants to laugh. Here's he found someone who seems to dislike Sherlock as much as John should, someone who would probably believe him if he told her the truth - and all he wants to do is punch her in the face.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an auction going on to support AO3. You can bid on the author of your choice and win a fic written by them especially for you based on whatever prompt you want (within reason), and I'm participating as an author. Click on this link for more information: [AO3 Tumblr Auction](http://ao3auction.tumblr.com/FAQ)

Sherlock at a crime scene is - just Sherlock at a crime scene.

John stands back a little with Lestrade, watching in silence as Sherlock flits around the body. With that dark coat and the quick, almost nervous movements, he reminds John of a crow that can't decide which part of a dead body it wants to start munching on first. The thought makes him smirk, and Sergeant Donovan, who has spent the past fifteen minutes glaring a hole through Sherlock's back, stares at him like he's suddenly grown a horn right in the middle of his forehead. Apparently smirking at a crime scene is not the done thing, though he'd never know it from the half-smile Sherlock has been wearing during his examination.

"John," Lestrade says, drawing his attention away from Donovan and Sherlock. The D.I.'s got his hands tucked into his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the chill in the air, but it doesn't seem to be doing him much good. He still looks frozen. "I've been wanting to ask - how are you doing? Are you getting by okay?"

John's shiver has nothing to do with the wind. "I'm fine," he says low, keeping his eyes fixed on Lestrade's face, searching for any sign that Lestrade might be about to mention what happened the last time they met. But either Lestrade is perfectly at ease, or the man is an excellent liar because his face remains a blank canvas that would do Sherlock proud.

Lestrade looks at him a moment longer before giving a faint smile. "I just wanted to make sure. I know what it can be like when you hang around Sherlock for too long. The most insane ideas actually start to sound intelligent," he says, rolling his eyes. "Your wounds haven't been giving you any trouble?"

"My feet are still a bit sore, but other than I'm no worse for the wear," he says, hardly daring to believe that maybe this is it.

"That's good. I saw the damage that son of a bitch did to you." Lestrade shakes his head and whistles. "I have to say, I wasn't sure you'd ever walk again. And then when you didn't get up from the sofa, I thought maybe the news was worse than the doctors had thought."

His cheeks are burning. John can feel it in spite of the cold air. He clears his throat. "The, ah, doctors advised me to spend as much time laying down as possible. They said that any walking before I was ready could traumatize the soles of my feet even more, and that I would be putting my chances of healing properly at risk. Put like that, it seemed best just to listen to them." Should he explain more? Maybe add in something about how Sherlock had stolen all of his clothing for an experiment and he couldn't go get more? Or will that sound strange, like he's trying too hard? He shifts uneasily. 

"Right, yeah, wouldn't want to exacerbate the damage," Lestrade agrees. He bounces on the balls of his feet, shivering. "God I wish Sherlock would hurry up. Sometimes I think he takes longer at this just because he wants to make me wait."

"I'd believe that," John says, relieved for the change of subject. "He does like to show off."

"Like a peacock," Lestrade mutters, and they both snicker. The sound catches Sherlock's attention and he spins around to look at them, his eyes narrowed in thought. John's amusement vanishes in the wake of that scrutiny, which he swears he can feel physically: like the faint touch of pinpricks all over his body. It causes a warm, unwelcome pool of arousal in the pit of his belly. He wants to look away, but knows by now that avoidance is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. He meets Sherlock's eyes squarely and sees that mouth creep up into a smirk.

"John," Sherlock says, "come tell me what you see."

"What I see? What the hell does he expect me to see?" John says under his breath, but he goes because why not? The closer he gets to the body, the stronger the smell of rich copper gets. It's not a scent he's overly familiar with, but it doesn't bother him the way he's expecting it to. He looks down at the body, which is that of a short black male. The throat has been neatly slashed and was the likely cause of death, but there are additional stab marks all over his chest and torso. He kneels down to get a better look at them, and someone passes him a set of gloves. He takes them automatically and trades his leather gloves for the latex.

"Tell me," Sherlock murmurs, just behind, and John sucks in a sharp breath at the hot breath washing over the back of his neck. For a moment, his mind goes perfectly blank and his mouth starts speaking without his permission.

"Time of death is estimated to be about five hours ago, certainly no more than eight. He was surprised by the attacker. There are no defensive wounds on his arms or hands, so I'd say they snuck up on him. The attacker was taller than he was, you can tell by the upward curve of the slash on the right side of the throat. That's how he died, and everything else was done post-mortem judging by the lack of bleeding. Some of the stab marks on his chest look odd, though. Some of them are deep and others barely penetrate the skin. It's almost like the attacker got tired towards the end, or maybe there were two different ones."

The words flow out into the air with such perfect precision that it actually takes him a few seconds to register them all, and when he does he snaps his mouth shut and kneels there in dumbfounded silence. Did all of that really just come from him? He looks down blankly at his hands, realizing that he has been morbidly probing at the wounds on the body the whole time he was speaking. He jerks away, hands trembling so badly that he can barely remain still long enough to tear the latex gloves off and fling them away, not caring where they land, and bangs smack into Sherlock. He nearly yanks away again before instinctively stilling when Sherlock's hands grip his hips.

"John," Sherlock breathes behind him, sounding shocked.

"Bloody hell," Lestrade says at nearly the same time. "How did you know all that?" And suddenly he's looking at John with a lot more respect.

John feels sick. Like he might throw up. His throat works for a couple of minutes and oh sure, _now_ the words won't come - "I, uh -"

"Were you a doctor before you ended up on the street?" Lestrade asks curiously.

"Um, I -" He's getting a headache now, a bad one. The pain is blooming on the back of his head at the base of his skull, and it's a familiar one. He used to get it a lot back when he first woke up on the streets, whenever he tried to think too hard about the memories he was missing.

"Lestrade, I hardly think that's relevant when you should be focusing on the case." Now Sherlock sounds annoyed, and he squeezes John's hips so lightly that it would be imperceptible to anyone else before stepping around and in front of John, shielding him from the body. "John is correct. There were two attackers, one male and one female." And he begins reeling off information at a speed that has poor Lestrade scrambling to pull out his little black book and begin writing.

Even though most of what Sherlock says goes right over John's head, he realizes that just listening to the man's deep voice, slightly mocking but mostly still caught up in the adrenaline of a newly solved case, flowing around him is soothing. He keeps his eyes locked onto Sherlock's back and tries not to think. He tries not to remember, tries not to pay any attention to that blank spot in his mind. But that's easier said than done. It's like having a sore tooth, and now that he's acknowledged it he can't stop poking.

His headache is worse by the time Sherlock finally stops talking. Lestrade keeps writing before pausing, and it takes him a second to realize that Sherlock is truly done. "Are you coming to the doctor's, then?" he says.

"What?" John looks at him in bewilderment, squinting to see him through the light that now seems extraordinarily bright for London.

"No," Sherlock says, and then he turns and puts a hand on John's shoulder. "This case was boring. I've told you before to only call me when you have something interesting!"

"I thought this was _was_ interesting!" Lestrade shouts after them, but it is clear that Sherlock is no longer listening. He hustles John through the rest of the police who are standing around like idiots and out onto the pavement, where he throws up a hand for a cab. Like magic, one stops immediately.

"I'm sorry," John says quietly as they pull away. His head hurts so badly now that he wants the world to just stop, but he feels the need to apologize. Even though he suspects he probably shouldn't. "I know you've been looking forward to a case for the past few days after being cooped up with me for so long. You could have stayed -"

"Do stop talking, John," Sherlock interrupts. "The case was dull and I was bored." His tone very clearly indicates that is the end of their discussion, and John is only too happy to ride the rest of the way back to Baker Street in silence.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mixed up two chapters while posting, so thanks to everyone who notified me. It has now been fixed.

His head is pounding unbearably by the time the cab pulls up in front of 221 Baker Street. Every jolt of the wheels sends a fresh wave of pain radiating out from the top of his head and down his spine, an experience that is not one he wants to repeat anytime soon, and he is relieved when the cab finally stops. Sherlock climbs out after handing the cabbie another wad of bills, leaving the way free for John to follow. He turns blindly towards the fresh air and scoots across the seat. The act of standing up makes the world spin, and the ugly feeling of nausea claws at his throat. He slams the door and doubles over.

Throwing up in the middle of the day on the pavement is not something John has ever done before that he knows of. It's not pleasant. He braces his body against the car and retches again as a swirl of dizzying lights spark in front of his eyes. The cabbie scoffs and mutters something about drunks - loud enough to be audible, of course - before pulling away. The sudden lack of a car leaves John off balance, and he nearly tips all the way over before a strong arm is slung around his waist, keeping him on his feet.

"Come on," Sherlock says in his ear, practically carrying John up the front steps. There is one good thing about his headache, John discovers, and that is the fact that he can no longer feel the pain in his feet. He makes it up the stairs with no problems, if not necessarily under his own influence, and across the threshold of 221b.

Familiar hands begin prying at his jacket and gloves, trying to take them off, and John thinks, right, and starts to help. His fingers are clumsy as he pries his outer layer off, followed by the clothing he's been wearing for less than two hours. Sherlock pauses for a split second as John goes to pull off his jumper before returning to help again, easing the jumper off of his head and tossing it aside, then helping him with the button on his jeans. He grips John's hands when John reaches for his underwear.

"Don't," he says, and then, "go down the hall. The room at the very end will be unlocked. I want you to go inside and lie down on the bed."

It takes John a moment to understand these instructions, and by the time he does Sherlock is already gone. The couch looks inviting because of proximity, but the thought of a bed is too appealing to ignore. If Sherlock's actually going to let him lay on one - well. He stumbles down the hall, feeling more like he's tottering so unsteadily that he could tip right over at any moment, and finds that the door is indeed unlocked. He pushes it open carefully and steps inside of Sherlock's bedroom for the first time. 

The room is not what John is expecting. It is clean, for one thing, though there is a slight layer of dust on just about everything. But it is surprisingly free of the clutter that seems to consume the rest of the flat. The walls are a sort of dirty grey colour, and there is an old poster of the Periodic Table of Elements on the wall, along with a couple of wanted posters. One picture - just one - stands on Sherlock's night table, but he is too far away to see who it is. The bed is large, a queen size at least, and made up with brown sheets. 

The bed is also soft, he discovers shortly, with just the right amount of firmness. John eases himself down and lets his face fall into the pillow. Blissful darkness is the first thing he is aware of, and for several minutes that is the _only_ thing he is aware of. It helps a little with the pain, but he has passed the point where a little bit of dark and quiet is going to do the job. He drifts briefly, wanting to sleep but unable to when the nausea threatens whenever his eyes fall shut, and gradually he becomes conscious of something else.

Even though Sherlock never seems to sleep, the pillows, the bed, they smell like him. The scent is subtle in a way that Sherlock rarely is, a hint of chemicals and tobacco and something sweet that John can't put a name to, but it is oddly comforting. He shifts a little and inhales deeply, and when he exhales again he can feel just a tiny bit of the tension finally draining away. The easing of the muscles in his neck and shoulders is a relief, and he lets out a shuddering sigh.

Footsteps creep into the room, light but still loud enough to make him wince. "John," Sherlock says, voice low.

John lifts his head just enough to see. Sherlock is holding a glass of water and - oh, pills. He doesn't even bother to ask what they are, doesn't even care as long as they do something. He tosses the pills back but refuses the water when even just the act of swallowing makes his stomach threaten to throw up a second time. Sherlock is being strangely kind and accommodating, but John isn't sure that will last if he vomits on Sherlock's bed. And as intriguing as being punished sounds, he knows he can't deal with that now.

"If you need to vomit, there is a bucket beside the bed," says Sherlock, like he is reading John's mind. And hell, maybe he is. 

"Noted," John said heavily into the pillow. He hears Sherlock leave the room again, and - fuck - he actually feels hurt that Sherlock hasn't stayed with him. This migraine must be really messing with his head, he thinks, closing his eyes. 

Whatever the pills were, John finds himself drifting off a few minutes later. The sleep comes gradually this time, not like before when he was drugged, but it is still relentless and he can only succumb. He dreams about strange things: a woman with the same colour hair as his, a place where there is only sand and death, another woman who smiles and tries to kiss him a lot, Sherlock. Sherlock. He wakes up to the feeling of intense scrutiny, of a gaze that is trying to deduce his very soul. The rest of the fragments of the dream slip away as he opens his eyes and looks over at Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" he mumbles, disoriented. His head still aches, but not with the same intensity that it did before. The pain is more like a regular headache, concentrated around the back of his skull. He does not roll over on his back.

"Hello, John." Sherlock is sitting beside the bed, one leg folded over the other, hands together beneath his chin in one of his favourite poses. "You feel better."

"Bit, yeah. Though my head still hurts. What was in those pills you gave me?"

"Pain reliever combined with a mild sedative. They were given to Mycroft after he had surgery last year."

John doesn't need to ask how Sherlock came to have them. The half smirk on Sherlock's face tells him everything he needs to know. He closes his eyes again, wondering if it would be alright if he just went back to sleep. Now that is in a state to appreciate it, the bed feels amazing. He can't believe that Sherlock doesn't take advantage of it more often. Though of course, he may be a little biased considering that he can't recall the last time he slept in a bed that wasn't in a hospital. Automatically he strays back to that empty spot in his mind, and he has to force himself to stop prying at it.

"You were a doctor."

Okay, that's an excellent distraction. "Sorry?"

"The first time we met, I deduced that you were a soldier." Sherlock says it like it is obvious, as though John's reaction at the time hadn't got him into this mess. "And now I see that you were also a doctor. What you said at the crime scene makes that appallingly obvious." He sounds disappointed by that. "Yet you were shot and sent home. Interesting. Army doctors generally aren't out on the front lines."

"I wouldn't know," says John. The thought of learning anything about himself is alternately exciting and terrifying. He keeps thinking about what Sherlock said, about how no one has been searching for him. In all the time he was on the streets, not a single person has tried to find him. What does that say about his old life?

"I will find out," says Sherlock, and now he's got the same look on his face that he wears when he's got a new case to explore. "And I won't do it by looking at Mycroft's file."

That catches John's attention. "Mycroft's got a file on me?"

"Mycroft is the British government, John. He has files on everyone."

"But - he knows who I used to be?"

"Yes."

John is not sure how to feel about this. He really isn't. Mycroft knows. Everything. He could tell John his last name, about his family, his old jobs, why he joined the army. Everything. His mouth feels dry. "You... haven't looked."

"No," Sherlock says. "I don't have to. All I really need to know about is that you are mine. The rest, while intriguing, is useless."

"I see," John says, and his voice is not nearly as steady as he wants it to be. Because he doesn't know whether Sherlock is right or not, and he's not sure that he ever wants to find out.


	24. Chapter 24

Even before he opens his eyes, John knows that he is being watched. He can feel the intense scrutiny of Sherlock's eyes like a physical caress on his body, something that is already becoming so familiar. It takes effort to keep his breathing calm, but he suspects that the detective is already aware that he's awake. Still, he keeps his eyes shut in an effort to maintain the facade for just a little bit longer. He'd almost expected to wake up back on the floor in front of the fireplace, but instead he is still lying on Sherlock's bed. The mattress and sheets are just as comfortable now as they were before, possibly even more so now that he is in the right frame of mind to enjoy them. His headache has faded into a dull ache that, considering the circumstances, is barely worth a mention. He feels well rested and calm.

Perhaps that is why, when he feels the lone finger making gentle circles around his right nipple, he does not tense or try to squirm away. He opens his eyes slowly and looks straight across into Sherlock's face. At some point, Sherlock has moved from the chair beside the bed to lying down beside John, propped up on his elbow. Of course, he does not look surprised to see that John is conscious, and the light movement of his finger does not stop. John breathes through the slight fizzle of pleasure as his nipple begins to pebble, the skin flexing and tightening beneath the attention. Sherlock smiles, a quick twitching of his mouth, and gives the flesh a quick pinch with his thumb and index finger. John jumps.

"Oi!" he says, voice hushed but still indignant. 

"You enjoy a little pain with your pleasure, John. Don't bother to try hiding it from me. I could tell when I had you on my knees at the hospital," says Sherlock, evidently enjoying the way the mention of that time brings a flush to John's face. 

"That's... that's neither here nor there," John says, knowing even as he speaks that it is a pitiful excuse for a denial. Because the truth is, he really has no idea what he likes or doesn't like in regards to sex. It's not as though he's had the chance to partake in it very often, all he knows is what he's done with Sherlock. He's not even masturbated that much: on the streets, he could never be sure that he was alone. There were too many people who watched and waited for a man to be in just such a situation before taking advantage, and he hadn't wanted to be one of them. Maybe Sherlock's right and that _is_ how his tastes run.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, easily reading all of this information in John's face. It does not seem to surprise him. "You're curious," he muses out loud. In the dim light, his eyes look bright. "You want to know what it would be like for us to have more traditional sex."

John runs his tongue across his lower lip and says nothing. Because alright, yes, he is getting curious. Sherlock seems to be able to play his body as finely as his violin, picking out and using John's weak spots mercilessly with little practice. And John would really like to know if there is even the slightest chance that he could do the same to Sherlock. There is something oddly appealing about being able to see Sherlock break apart under an onslaught of pleasure, as though he might be able to gain a little power back that way. He wants to see it, and this time he wants to experience it when his mind is clear. He barely remembers Sherlock coming at the hospital, too wrapped up in his own pleasure at the time to pay attention.

But at the same time, John is not sure he really wants to go that route: he cannot bring himself to forget that just a few weeks ago, he hadn't wanted any part of this. To give in now seems wrong. But even with that thought in his mind, he can't deny that he _wants_. There is something electric about Sherlock that calls to him, and John doesn't know if he can fight it anymore, doesn't know if he wants to. He shivers, chilled, and lifts his eyes to Sherlock's face.

Whether or not Sherlock understands this, the man finally removes his finger from John's chest. He runs his hands up and down his own body, sliding over the tight jeans and dark purple shirt in a way that John can't help but follow. Sherlock's shirt is tight, the buttons straining to do their job, and they pop apart easily under the slightest bit of pressure. The thin line of skin that is revealed is pale, creamy almost, and flushed pink with the beginnings of arousal. John's mouth is painfully dry, and he can't even swallow as Sherlock allows the edges of his shirt to slide off, showing his chest, two pink nipples, his belly and a line of dark hair to John's greedy gaze. 

For a long, teasing moment, Sherlock keeps trailing his hands up and down his chest. It's almost like he's inviting John to join in, and John's hands fist helplessly in the covers in an effort to keep himself from doing just that. The detective smirks faintly and - there is no other word for it - _undulates_ , somehow managing to get his shirt off without ever completely lifting his body from the bed. John stares, and it occurs to him, distantly, that even if he could remember his past that is still probably the sexiest thing he has ever seen. As Sherlock begins working on his belt, fingers sliding the leather easily through the loops and buckle, he struggles to remember why he thought this is a bad idea. His reasons seem to have dissipated.

"Sherlock," he says, and the word comes out so shaky that it doesn't even sound like him. 

"Yes John?" Sherlock's voice has deepened, gaining that husky note that John is starting to realize can make him go completely hard in about fifteen seconds. For all of the taunting, all of the _teasing_ that has gone on between them, this is the first time he has ever seen Sherlock even partially naked. The realization that he is about to see Sherlock _fully naked_ is short circuiting certain parts of his brain. It is no wonder that he finds himself feeling very alarmed when he notices that Sherlock's hands have paused in taking the belt apart.

"I..." John swallows again. Somehow, _I want to see you naked_ and _I want to see what it looks like when you stop being in control_ and _I want you to fuck me._ don't seem like the right things to say, even though those are the only words on the tip of his tongue. With effort, he holds them back. This is, it's wrong, isn't it? He doesn't want this, not really, it's just this fucking siren of a man who has made him think that he does.

There is a wicked little smirk lingering around Sherlock's mouth, one that John is swiftly becoming intimately familiar with. It causes a tingle to shoot down his spine. He holds his breath as Sherlock slowly finishes with his belt and pulls the zip down, lifts his hips and pushes his trousers down around his thighs with his thumbs. He's gloriously naked underneath, no sign of any underwear, and John is pretty sure that whatever capacity for thought that he had left has now officially disappeared.

Sherlock's cock is long and slender, in perfect proportion to the rest of his body, with a fat head already gleaming with pre-come. It's flushed a deep red and fully erect, popping up to slap wetly against his belly. Sherlock kicks his trousers down to the bottom of the bed - impossible, the way he can even make something like that look graceful - and lazily wraps a hand around his prick. He pumps gently, as though he's got all of the time in the world, and he never once takes his eyes away from John's face. His other hand rests across his stomach, and he looks like a piece of art.

John realizes he can't look away from that cock, jutting proudly from a nest of dark curls, and the bollocks just beneath, and his mouth waters so suddenly that he has to swallow again to keep from drooling. He wants to touch, wants to taste, with a depth of desire that is both blinding and frightening in its intensity. His hands twitch with the urge and he wonders if Sherlock would let him. What would it feel like to have all of that creamy skin laid out bare for him?

"What do you want?" Sherlock murmurs.

"I want..." John reaches out, skims a shaking hand down Sherlock's belly and pauses inches from the man's shaft. If this is what he gets, then surely it can't be so bad to admit... "I want _you_."

Unfathomable eyes brighten as a smirk graces Sherlock's mouth. He slowly opens his hand and lets it slide away, fingers trailing across his thigh. "Then you have my permission to take what you want, John."


	25. Chapter 25

It takes nearly a full minute for the words to sink fully into John's mind, for him to wrap his mind around the fact that he is being given an invitation to touch. No, not just an invite: Sherlock _wants_ it. They both desire this. His hands are trembling slightly as he moves, pushing his body up slowly and crawling down to the end of the bed. Sherlock spreads his legs carelessly, apparently not shy in the least about showing off, and John settles obediently between his knees. Though he is keenly aware of the intense scrutiny, he takes a few precious seconds to look his fill. He has wondered, here and there, what Sherlock would look like while nude. John can safely say that his imagination has done a piss poor job compared to the real thing.

"John," Sherlock says, when the seconds have steadily ticked by and still John has made no move. "Touch me."

The three words are uttered with a biting tone of command that shocks John into his action before he even realizes what he's doing. He sucks in a sharp, startled breath as his fingers make impact with the soft skin of Sherlock's inner thighs. The flesh is hot, a bit damp with sweat, and John rubs the pads of his fingers in small, cautious circles. When Sherlock does not push him away, he gets a bit braver and slides his hands up higher, not quite brushing against the crease where thigh meets groin. The hair that grows there is dark and curly. Sherlock shivers when he trails a lazy finger through the hair, tracing a delicate path across the flat of Sherlock's belly. He's sensitive there, John realizes, and the knowledge gives him a private thrill.

He is tempted at first to wait for further instruction, because the thought of Sherlock telling him exactly what to do is extremely arousing. But this is about John learning what makes Sherlock tick. He leans forward, pushing his body out behind him until he's flat on his belly and level with Sherlock's lower half. He's not quite ready to do anything more than turn his attention to the lovely skin he's just been touching and learn it all over again with his lips. Sherlock jerks and makes a startled sound when John's mouth brushes against the inside of his right thigh in a light kiss, but then he goes lax and it's like he's giving permission with his _body_ , not just with his voice. It makes everything a thousand times more intimate.

John runs his tongue across his lips to moisten them before he kisses Sherlock again in the exact same spot. The taste is a little salty, musky. He does it a third time, then opens his mouth and licks a thin stripe up Sherlock's thigh. The flesh beneath his tongue quivers at the touch, and he thinks he might hear a soft moan but the sound is cut off too abruptly for him to be able to determine whether he's heard properly. The temptation to sit up and examine Sherlock's face is strong, but John refuses to give into it. He licks Sherlock a second time, then gives him a little nibble with his teeth. Soft, just gripping a fold of skin and worrying it gently. 

Sherlock jumps again, and then long fingers tangle into John's hair. They are firm and press hard, but not in any particular direction. John pauses to get used to the feel of them, never releasing the bit of skin. By the time he finally lets go, a lovely purple bruise has blossomed. It looks quite good against Sherlock's pale skin. John kisses it sweetly and then shifts his attention higher to where Sherlock's prick is standing up and shining. The head is exposed and fat with blood, his bollocks drawing tightly towards his body. With a patience John didn't know he could muster, he coaxes the firm balls to loosen and drop down into his cupped hand. He cradles the bollocks protectively, breathing hotly over them, admiring the way the skin crinkles.

There is a sparse covering of hair here too, and the thin strands rock back and forth with his every inhale and exhale. He ducks his head and presses his nose against them to better learn the scent. The musk is stronger here, and the skin is damp and supple. John nuzzles his cheek against one bollock, learning the way that it swells threateningly at his slightest touch, how it causes tension to thrum through the attached arms and legs. Sherlock's body is honest in a way that the man himself can never be. Here, perhaps, John senses that he might be able to learn how to even the field between them. Even if it only happens on a rare occasion, he is conscious of how much he wants that. 

He wants to speak, to say Sherlock's name in acknowledgement of this, but thinks that might break the hushed state they've fallen into. All he can smell is Sherlock, the musk and fresh sweat and tea and chemicals and tobacco, and in this position that's all he can see as well. His whole world has become Sherlock. John lets his eyes close as he finally takes one bollock into his mouth, rolling it around with his lips folded carefully over his teeth, as though judging the taste. This time there is no mistaking the faint moan that escapes into the air, and he fights back the urge to smile as he lets the bollock slip free. He blows again, barely breathing out, and feels the shiver that his breath provokes. The hand in his hair tightens.

More, Sherlock is saying without words, _more_. John is only too happy to oblige. All thoughts of how wrong this might be have fallen by the wayside. He wants to give Sherlock pleasure. He lifts himself up, supporting his weight with his hands, and gently sucks the head of Sherlock's cock into his mouth. Sherlock makes a strange, muffled sound that makes it sound like he's being suffocated. Drowning in pleasure, John thinks giddily, and forms a tight seal with his lips while he sweeps his tongue over the very tip like a lolly. He prods at the slit, wondering at the taste that somehow seems so ordinary even though he has nothing else to compare it to, before letting his tongue run down around the underside.

Sherlock's hips buck, driving his prick further into John's mouth, and he pulls back coughing. Rubbing his throat ruefully, he eyes the man in front of him as Sherlock goes abruptly still. John lifts his gaze then, meeting the verdigris eyes for the first time since he began. It's a rush to see the flush painted across Sherlock's cheekbones, the way his eyes have gone wide, how his mouth hangs open just a little bit - and John can guarantee that is all unconsciously done. Sherlock is not pretending, he is not trying to fool John, he is ridiculously turned on and it's all _because_ of John.

Needless to say, there is nothing in Sherlock's expression that makes him want to stop. The hand still tangled in his hair does loosen the longer that John stares, as though giving him the opportunity to move away, though if pressed Sherlock would never admit that he has given John the option. It is that knowledge which makes John lean forward again, keeping their eyes locked as he parts his lips and takes Sherlock's cock back into his mouth. This time, he uses a hand to keep the man's hips pinned to the bed.

He keeps it slow, learning what Sherlock likes and what he doesn't. He learns that Sherlock enjoys a hint of teeth here and there, but that he does not like too much pressure, that he likes having his bollocks played with but not tugged, and that pressing a curious finger into the warm, hidden spot just behind makes Sherlock squirm with a highly gratifying moan. John swallows around his shaft and presses a little bit harder, running the pad of his finger along the sensitive flesh. Sherlock trembles beneath him.

"John," he rasps, the first intelligible word he's spoken for what seems like hours. His voice rumbles from deep within his chest. John pauses, waiting, but when nothing more is forthcoming he continues.

Lack of practice prevents him from taking Sherlock too deep. He tries not to examine the realization that he really wants to practice enough to be able to do that. Instead, he presses gently on Sherlock's hip, a silent request for him to remain still, before bringing his left hand down to circle the base of his cock. He curls his fingers around the hard flesh, squeezing just firmly enough that Sherlock makes another ragged groan, and pushes two fingers behind his bollocks. He sucks hard, flattening his tongue against the head, and Sherlock shudders all over. 

"Fucking hell," he says, the curse tumbling easily from his lips, and then he sits up and grips John under the arms. John tries to resist, wanting to see this through, but Sherlock refuses to let go and keeps pulling until John has no choice but to let go of his cock and shift up. He settles his legs on either side of Sherlock's hips and looks down at him. They're both breathing heavily.

"You liked that," John says, because he can't think of anything else to say. He knows his face must be bright red and his cock is hard and aching, desire that he'd pushed aside before now roaring back.

There is a strange, searching expression on Sherlock's face. "I did," he says finally, reaching up and catching John around the back of the head. John comes down easily into the kiss, sharing the taste. It feels like the most intimate thing they've done so far.


	26. Chapter 26

Sherlock keeps it slow and sweet, light touches of their mouths before he licks his way into John's, as though trying to erase any trace of his taste. John hums his approval, his arms trembling from the effort of trying to hold himself up. He really wants to reach for his prick, because if he doesn't bring himself off soon he feels like he might honestly explode, but he doesn't feel capable of supporting his weight with only one arm and Sherlock's grip around his buttocks keeps him from leaning backwards, dares him to try. He breaks the kiss with a whimper that speaks to his discomfort and Sherlock's lips quirk into a faint smile.

He kisses John again, quick this time, before guiding him down onto the sheets and stripping away his underwear. John lays down with his back against Sherlock's chest, aching with want, knowing this is going to be delicious. Sherlock's hands disappear from his body for only a moment before returning, slick with lube. One of them urges John's leg up and he obediently parts his thighs, letting out a low hiss of understanding when he feels Sherlock's slick cock sliding between. He lets his leg drop and moans at the feeling of hot skin trapped, rutting against him when Sherlock does a slow back and forth with his thighs. There is something almost unbearably erotic about being used for Sherlock's pleasure. He breathes out shakily and reaches for his own prick, only for his hand to be batted away.

"No, mine," Sherlock rumbles in his ears, pinning John down with one broad arm across his chest. He grips John's cock lightly with his other hand and pumps just once, the pressure just enough to make John's eyes roll back. It feels obscenely good after ignoring his arousal for so long, and he wants more. He tries to get it, and whines in frustration when Sherlock's fingers go slack.

"Tease," he manages to say, and Sherlock chuckles.

"It's not teasing if I intend to follow through, now is it?" he murmurs, his tongue brushing against John's earlobe with every word. John shivers and arches his back in reply, intentionally tightening the muscles in his thighs. Sherlock lets out an approving sound and rewards John with another slow pull, fingers brushing the underside of his shaft. "While you were asleep, Lestrade sent me information about a new crime scene."

It takes John a moment to understand the seemingly random change in conversation. But then, with Sherlock, crime and cases are never far from his mind. It should not be surprising that even during sex he can't stop thinking about them. "New one already?" he asks, only slightly breathless.

"Mmm, it seems that the information we gave him was enough to close the last case. Really, if Scotland Yard observed even a little more it wouldn't be necessary for me to be called in on most of those pitiful excuses for cases." Sherlock sounds put out, this is his favourite topic to rant on, and John does not want him getting this distracted. He flexes his muscles, pressing backwards, and Sherlock breathes out heavily and nips him on the back of the neck instead. "Lestrade is often given new cases even while he is working old ones if they drag on for too long. I suspect that this case is the one he truly wanted my attention on. He just wanted to get the other one out of the way first. He's like that."

A good man, John thinks through the warm haze of pleasure. His headache has all but disappeared, lost in a raw flood of desire that is making his head spin for an entirely different reason. He feels loose and relaxed, humming with the beginning of what will be a shattering orgasm. "So?"

"I want to know if you will come with me to the next one."

And that's not what John is expecting, not at all. He finds himself staring at the other end of the room and wishing that he could see Sherlock's face. It is difficult enough to read Sherlock in a normal situation, much less when his brain is foggy from sex and they're chest-to-back. He struggles to think. "Do you want me to come?"

There is no answer.

"I want to come," John decides when the minutes drag by and Sherlock continues to remain silent. Being at the crime scene with Sherlock is the first bit of action he's had in months that didn't end with him in too much danger. It had been fun, even, or at least it was until he ended up with a migraine. As long as he keeps himself away from any more dead bodies, or at least does not let himself think about the empty spots in his head, there is no reason why he shouldn't. He likes the thought of being there with Sherlock, of knowing everything that Sherlock does. It is far more appealing than the idea of being left to wait, or worse of having to deal with Sherlock in a strop because there are interesting crimes happening without him.

"Good boy." Sherlock barely breathes the words, but John hears them all the same and he shivers all over. It is unfair, he thinks wildly, but then those sorts of thoughts are driven entirely from his head when Sherlock fists his cock and begins to pump in earnest. His fingers are soaked with lube, it's trailing down the front of John's thighs and in between and all over the bed, and it's sloppy and messy and just gorgeous. John's eyes flutter shut with a whimper that sounds pained, but it's really not: the pace is fast and leaves him breathless and drives him over the edge that it's like a punch to the stomach when it strikes.

As he shivers and shakes his way through it, he is vaguely aware of Sherlock thrusting between his thighs in earnest now. In between gasps, John does his best to tighten the burning muscles in his thighs. They ache, not used to being called into action like this, and tremble with fatigue. He grits his teeth and bears it, listening to the sound of Sherlock's quickening breathing and the soft sounds that seem to happen without Sherlock's awareness. Not quite a moan, but a little bit rougher than a gasp: they send chills down John's spine, and not just because he can feel hot gusts of air hitting the back of his neck with everyone. He wants more, he wants to hear Sherlock come, he wants - 

"Come _on_ ," he groans out, and there it is: Sherlock takes a deep breath behind him and comes soundlessly, not a word passing from his lips. A warm, wet feeling spreads down John's thighs, trickling out the front and back and adding to the general state of the bed. John shivers again, because it occurs to him to wonder what it will be like when that feeling is inside of him - and the idea is not as disturbing as he might have thought.

For several long, languid minutes they stay there together. It is the most still and at peace that Sherlock has ever been, John thinks. Predictably, it does not last for nearly as long as he would like. Sherlock squirms behind them, growing increasingly restless, and then he pulls away from John altogether. The sudden absence of heat against his back makes John frown, if only because it makes him realize just how much of a mess he is. He's covered in lube and semen, and while he doesn't mind there is no way he's going to a crime scene like this.

"I need a shower," he says, "and food, before I can go anywhere."

Sherlock pauses near the door and scowls. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," John says pointedly. "Remember, that's all part of a... pet's care." He hates the words, has to force it out, but suspects - knows - it's the only way to make Sherlock see reason. "Not everyone is like you, Sherlock. I'm not like you. I can't go days without food. And my head still hurts," he adds, "and a lack of food probably isn't helping."

Sherlock just looks at him, like he's trying to tell whether or not John's fibbing, before he rolls his eyes and disappears out the door. John takes that as unspoken consent and climbs out of the bed. If he had the time, he'd change the sheets. He dreads the knowing looks Mrs Hudson will be giving him over the next few days. But he knows Sherlock won't wait, has the feeling that whether John is ready or not Sherlock will drag him out of the flat, so he heads for the shower.

Taking a shower by himself is a novelty, though it shouldn't be, he's become too used to Sherlock being in there with him. It feels strangely lonely. John hurries through, not lingering beneath the hot water even though it feels good on the tension in his muscles, and dries off quickly. He leaves his towel behind and walks out naked. Sherlock is sitting on the sofa with his phone, tapping away, and there is a plate with a couple of sandwiches on the table in front of him. 

"Eat quickly," is all that he says.

John hides a smile and sets about doing just that.


	27. Chapter 27

No one at the crime scene seems surprised to see him with Sherlock this time around. They must have been warned by Lestrade, because the officer guarding the tape looks the two of them over and then allows them to pass without comment. There is no sign of Sergeant Donovan, and for that John is relieved. He's not fond of the cutting remarks she and Sherlock exchange, regardless of whether Sherlock can give as good as he gets. It's not right, not professional, and he can't stop himself from wanting to put a stop to it even though it's not his place. He's relieved that, instead of a confrontation, he is able to trail Sherlock silently onto the scene and watch as the detective goes straight to work.

It's gruesome, this one, almost worse than the one from before even though there is less blood. The victim is a woman - well, a girl really, in her young teens. She looks to be about fourteen to sixteen years old, and she's wearing a simple white tank top and a short blue skirt. Her hair is blonde and thin, hanging around her face in wisps. John can't tell what colour her eyes are, because they're closed. And it's really no wonder: if he had chosen to die this way, by tying a rope around his neck and stepping off of the landing, he wouldn't want to face death with his eyes open either. He thrusts his hands into his pockets and tries not to look directly at her, but something about the macabre scene keeps drawing his attention regardless.

"Hard, isn't it?" a low voice says at his elbow, startling John badly. "Sorry, thought you'd heard me coming. Here. I figured Sherlock would be bringing you around again, and I know the young ones can be difficult."

John accepts the cup of coffee with some surprise, automatically wrapping his hands around the plastic and absorbing the heat. It feels good against his palms. "I've seen people this young on the streets," he says, "but never anyone who died like this. Why did you call Sherlock in? Isn't it a suicide?"

"That's how it's meant to look, I think." Lestrade leans against the wall, watching Sherlock carefully. He's ready to spring into action if the man does anything illegal or untoward. But Sherlock appears to be acting strangely respectful with this victim, though John's not really sure why, and Lestrade continues, "That's what I thought when I first got here, too. It's only once you start taking a close look that you notice the little things that don't match up. There was another girl a week ago, died exactly the same way. Same age, same appearance. Makes me wonder."

"Serial killer?" John asks.

"Might be. Set off enough alarms for me to get Sherlock on it."

John glances over at him, noting the lines of fatigue that are no doubt permanently etched into Lestrade's face. Lestrade is one of those men who actually cares, he realizes. He's a genuinely good cop, and not just because he gets paid to care. He really wants to put a stop to all crime, enough so that he puts up with the crap that Sherlock puts him through. He can't really think of anything to say, so in the end he just goes with, "I'm sure their families will appreciate it."

Lestrade shoots him a tired smile. "You'd think so, but some people can be funny that way." He straightens up, searching for a change in conversation. "You feeling alright? You looked pretty out of it before."

"Oh, yeah. I just -" John shakes his head, because they haven't talked about this. He doesn't know what he should say to Lestrade. This man is no Sherlock, but he does have a fair amount of intelligence. "I had a bad fall about six months ago while I was on the street. There are some things I don't remember the way I should. It gives me a bad headache sometimes."

"I see." A thin line appears between Lestrade's eyebrows, and for a moment John can practically see the questions that he wants to ask, the details he wants to press for. It's in a detective inspector's nature to be curious, but fortunately Lestrade is also an extraordinarily polite man under the right circumstances. He settles for a nod and does not ask for more, and John breathes a grateful sigh as they fall into a companionable silence.

After about fifteen minutes, Sherlock finished his initial examination and turns to look at them. If he is surprised to see them together, he gives no sign of it. "She'll need to be cut down. I can't gather any more data until I have a closer look."

"Right. Anderson!"

Sherlock's annoyed " _Really_ , Lestrade?" is ignored as the door to the rest of the house swings open. A tall, thin man wearing a blue jumpsuit comes out. He takes one look at Sherlock and immediately scowls, which does little to improve his sallow face. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asks rudely. "I thought that you were banned from crime scenes until further notice."

"I brought him in," says Lestrade with the weary patience of someone who has seen this occur many times before. "Anderson, we're ready for her to be cut down."

"Do try to preserve the evidence instead of just stomping all over it like you usually do," Sherlock adds scathingly.

Anderson glares back and hunches his shoulders as he stomps up the steps. There is a team of men already up there, evidently waiting to be called upon for just such a duty. John watches in fascination as three of them assemble on the floor beneath the girl, arms up-stretched to catch her when she is cut free. Anderson takes a knife from his workbox and begins slicing through the rope that holds her to the railing. He goes slow, allowing the girl's weight to be gently eased into the arms of those waiting below. The three men lower her onto the floor, and one of them takes the time to straighten her limbs out before they all step back and Sherlock takes their place.

John is waiting, holding his breath, for Sherlock to turn and motion him forward, or maybe call him over with a sharp word. Because he hasn't forgotten Sherlock's promise to figure out who he is, and that seems exactly like the sort of thing Sherlock would do. But as the minutes tick by and Sherlock doesn't lift his head from where he's staring intently at the victim's head, he starts to relax a little bit. Perhaps, he thinks, there is nothing about this victim that John would be able to help with.

He's not sure whether to be disappointed about that or not.

"Alright," Lestrade says after a good ten minutes have passed. "What do you have, Sherlock?"

"She was hanged, but she did not kill herself."

Lestrade waits, this time, and then he sighs and gives in, "Want to share how you know that with the rest of the class?"

Sherlock straightens up and look at him with complete disdain, and he says, "It's simple." And then he starts to talk. And god, John's heard him do his deductions before. Of course he has. But he'll never get tired of how utterly _brilliant_ Sherlock can be, how he can look at something that seems utterly meaningless to everyone else and know how important it is, know just what it means and how to solve crimes with it. In the span of two minutes, Sherlock breathlessly lays out the fact that the victim was having sex with her mother's boyfriend, that she was the third victim not the second, that she knew her attacker, and that she was aware of what was happening but was unable to do anything about it.

"How do you mean?" Lestrade looks a little sick at that.

"Here." One slim finger pointing, and both Lestrade and John advance close enough to see the small red spot hidden beneath her hair. It's a needle mark, innocuous, and Sherlock says, "She was drugged. This killer thrives on the fact that his victims are aware. I would start with the mother's boyfriend."

"Jesus," Lestrade mutters. "Right. Thanks. Let me know if you think of anything else."

With a graceful incline of his head, Sherlock strides off down the pavement. John follows automatically. When they're out of hearing, he says, "That was brilliant, you know. Really... amazing."

Sherlock turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised, and John grins. "Just fulfilling my duties. You said I was to tell you that and now I have." He sobers quickly and picks up the pace, lengthening his stride until he's walking beside Sherlock instead of just behind. It hurts, makes his feet ache, but he ignores the pain. "What you said to Lestrade, that's not all of it, is it? You know something else and you didn't want to tell him."

There is a faint huff that may well be laughter. "There may be hope for you yet, John," Sherlock mutters. "Lestrade, as you are aware, is not fully up to date on Moriarty."

John absorbs this, turning it over, and comes up with, "So you mean he didn't know you two were shacking up."

"I _never_ slept with Moriarty," Sherlock hisses, and there is such a ring of truth in those words that John concedes it _is_ the truth. "It was a business relationship and nothing more, designed to keep me entertained when there were no cases." His lips thin. "Regardless, Lestrade was unaware. I recognize the workmanship - there is a man we need to speak with, and Lestrade cannot know. Not unless it is necessary."

He feels like he should press the point, maybe suggest that it might be best if the police know they are heading into a potentially dangerous situation, but he does not. Because Sherlock said "we".


	28. Chapter 28

John's not sure where he's expecting them to end up. Somewhere sordid, hidden, a place that a member of Scotland Yard wouldn't dare go without back-up and a gun in hand. He can be forgiven, then, for letting his jaw drop when the cab pulls up outside of Scotland Yard. He turns his head and regards Sherlock incredulously, waiting for an answer. Sherlock doesn't deign to give him one. He pushes the door open and swings out gracefully, popping the collar of his coat up as he slams the door with a bony hip. Realizing that he's about to be left behind, John scrambles to follow. He barely shuts the door before the cabbie hits the gas, propelling the cab away from the pavement with an obnoxious squeal of the tires.

"What -" John says, and then he stops. He takes a slow, deep breath and tries again. "Sherlock, what are we doing here?"

"I don't like repeating myself," Sherlock says. It's probably meant to be a scolding comment, but there is a glint of amusement in his eyes. He's fully enjoying John's state of confusion. "I told you that I had someone to talk to. I never said that it was in the sort of place that you were imagining."

Probably because he wanted to see John's reaction, John knows. Sherlock's a bastard like that. They walk in together, and it's blatantly obvious that Sherlock is a frequent visitor. Every single person who looks up to see them immediately ducks their head back down and sort of hunches their shoulders, as though sheer will power is enough to keep Sherlock from noticing them. Those who are standing in the man's way quickly move out of the way. Some of the bravest steal curious glances in John's direction, clearly wondering who he is and why he's with Sherlock Holmes, of all people. John just raises an eyebrow at the lot of them and walks by, fighting to keep a smirk off of his face. It's sort of gratifying to know that he's not the only one bowled over by Sherlock.

They take the lift to the second floor, and John's grateful for that because his feet are beginning to ache. Sherlock strides down the hall to an office and throws a door open without knocking; the man inside chokes on the bite of a sandwich he's just taken and nearly falls backwards. His chair teeters precariously when his feet leave the desktop, and it's only sheer luck that he tilts forward instead of back. As the front two legs slam into the ground, Sherlock ushers John inside and shuts the door behind them. He puts a hand on John's shoulder and pushes him into the chair available on their side of the desk. John goes willingly enough, sinking down and resting his feet.

"H-Holmes," the man says nervously, setting his lunch down. He gropes around for a napkin and swipes at his hands, smearing what smells like bacon grease, and Sherlock's nose wrinkles. 

"Really, Dimmock, one would think that you'd be eating better by now," he says. John raises an eyebrow, amazed that _Sherlock_ of all people is commenting on someone's eating habits, and Sherlock shoots him a smirk when Dimmock isn't looking.

"I... I am," Dimmock says, flustered. "I mean, I usually do. It's just, they were having a sale on and - hang on, who's this?" He notices John at last and half-stands, pushing his chair back. "You're not - you said that this was private, that you wouldn't - Holmes!"

"Relax. He's here as my assistant and anything you say will be considered confidential," says Sherlock. "But only if you tell me the truth, and remember I _will_ know if you are not." He paces back and forth, hands linked idly at the base of his spine, and eventually Dimmock sits down. Only then does Sherlock continue. "We have just come from the latest crime scene Lestrade's been assigned. You know of it, I'm sure: victim hanged herself, clear suicide that is actually a murder?"

"Yes. I've heard of the case. But I don't see what that has to do with -"

"No, you wouldn't. Evidently you have not studied the case all that closely, or you would have realized that it has a good deal in common with the first case we worked on together." Sherlock has paused now, frighteningly still, staring at Dimmock. John knows exactly what it is like to be on the other side of those pale blue-grey-green eyes. He does not envy Dimmock. 

Dimmock opens his mouth. Shuts it. 

"Each victim had a small tattoo done just before their death," Sherlock presses on when it becomes evident Dimmock is not going to speak. "A black lotus."

"Oh god." It's as though Sherlock's reached out and punched him: Dimmock leaps to his feet and starts tugging violently at his hair. "Oh god, I thought this day might come - oh god, shit, _shit_ , they're going to find out and I'm going to go to jail and -"

"Enough." That tone left no room for argument. Dimmock fell silent. Sherlock said, "I know who the killer is. I suspect that Moriarty has hired him to get rid of some pests that he does not want to deal with himself. If I am correct, then there is a good chance that your ineptitude will come under examination. Lestrade is a far superior detective to you, and once he begins to make the connection he will doubtless go searching through the old case files." His eyes gleam. "He may notice something that no one else has. How long do you think you would last, if called in for questioning?"

The whole of Dimmock's face has gone a distressing shade of white. Sweat gleams on his forehead. "I didn't mean to let him go," he says, hands spread at his sides. "He - he tricked me!"

"He played you," Sherlock corrects, lips drawn back in a sneer. "And you were too stupid to realize what was happening."

"Sherlock," John murmurs. He doesn't want to draw Sherlock's ire onto himself, but nor he can feel right about sitting here and watching Sherlock verbally eviscerate the poor man in front of them. Dimmock looks to be about two seconds away from fainting or worse, and John's pretty certain that Lestrade will also hear about the man suffering a mysterious heart attack during a visit with Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes flick briefly to John, and when he looks away the tension in his shoulders has eased. When he speaks, his voice no longer has the biting quality it did before. "I want the old case files."

Dimmock's eyes dart between them. "I can't just -"

"Or I could go to Lestrade and explain why I want them," says Sherlock casually, and John half expects to see him start examining his nails. "He'll notice much sooner that those files are conveniently missing." He glances around the room. "Locked up in your cabinet, aren't they? Conveniently misfiled, indeed. You'll be fired, of course, and that's if you don't end up as an accessory to murder. How do you think you would do in prison, Dimmock? I'm certain that all of your old -"

"Alright!" Dimmock has visibly deflated. He scrubs a hand across his face and steps out from behind the desk, shaking. He gives Sherlock a wide birth as he staggers over to the cabinet and gropes in his pocket for the keys. The packet of files he removes is thick, but Sherlock takes it from him as though it weighs nothing. Dimmock watches him with wide, worried eyes. "You won't - you won't tell Lestrade, will you?"

Sherlock doesn't even look at him, just turns on his heel and walks out the door. John spares a sympathetic glance for the man as he hefts himself to his feet and follows. It would be useless to offer any sort of platitude, because he knows damn well that Sherlock will do whatever it takes to solve this case. And if that means Lestrade finds out that Dimmock's had - possibly illegal - dealings with this Spider, whoever that is, then so be it. Dimmock clearly realizes that because he lets out a muffled wail and collapses into the visitor's chair. John shuts the door gently.

It's not until they're back in the cab that Sherlock finally speaks. "You've got questions."

"Yeah," John says, because he's been thinking about everything he just heard in that office, and there is one thing that sticks out to him. "You said... Moriarty is behind this, right? That he hired this... Spider guy to take care of those girls. It seems like a lot of unnecessary effort." He stares hard out the window, unwilling or - maybe unable - to look Sherlock in the eyes. "Why didn't he just take them as toys?"

The flipping of paper pauses. Sherlock says quietly, "John."

"I just... I'm curious, that's all. Because Moriarty said he could use another toy." 

Sherlock flips the folder shut. "Very often there is no logical explanation for why Jim Moriarty acts the way he does," he murmurs, soft and intimate. John turns, leaning towards him instinctively, and Sherlock allows it with an incline of his head. "In this case, those girls were more valuable to Moriarty dead. They were likely meant as a warning, possibly as a taunt towards Scotland Yard and me. That is the reason for the tattoo. He knew that I would notice. He wants my attention. It is much more difficult to get attention with a quiet disappearance than it is with a public execution."

It makes sense in a way that causes a hard, cold knot to form in John's stomach. He thinks that those girls probably got off easy, that whatever they suffered before their deaths was nothing compared to Moriarty. He says, "Who is the Spider?"

"I'm going to catch him," Sherlock says, shifting, and then he's one long line of warmth up John's side, "and then you'll know."


	29. Chapter 29

They end up back at Baker Street, where Sherlock sits down on the sofa and disappears into the files. John sits down on the floor with his back to the chair and watches for lack of anything better to do. Sherlock hadn't told him to strip when they entered so he hasn't, and it feels strange to be wearing clothing indoors. He shifts restlessly, tugging at the bottom of the his jumper until it flattens out across his stomach, half-tempted to remove it entirely. At least he's taken his shoes and socks off, and his feet no longer ache quite so badly. He's checked them over and the brightly slashed lines of red no longer look as raw as they did before, and the skin is still puffy, a little swollen now from the walking he's been doing, but clearly healing.

And that's - that's a huge relief, one he can't put into words. He remembers with startling clarity being on that cold floor while Moriarty took a knife to the bottoms of his feet. Remembers wondering what else the madman might have the chance and inclination to do, remembers wondering if he'd ever walk again by the time that Moriarty lost interest in torture. Every touch of the knife against his flesh had been a new burst of agony, but now he considers himself lucky. Moriarty thoroughly enjoys causing pain, and a few knife wounds are likely only the beginning of what he could really do given enough time and instruments. John shivers a little at the thought. He pities anyone who gets caught in Moriarty's web for that long.

He flexes his toes, wincing a little at the fresh little jolt of pain that burns through his heel, and glances up when the door eases open. Mrs Hudson smiles across the room at him. "Hello, dear," she says, smoothing her hands across the front of her dress. It's striped with something dark, molasses maybe, and there's a streak of flour on her right cheek. "Would you like to come downstairs and have a biscuit? Only they're freshly from the oven, and I'd love someone to taste them before I take them with me tonight."

John hesitates and looks at Sherlock. He wants to go with Mrs Hudson. He hasn't really seen the rest of Baker Street beyond Sherlock's flat, just the stairs and the front hall, and he's curious. And now that the door is open, he can smell the delicious, mouth-watering scent of freshly cooked biscuits. The tantalizing smell of chocolate makes his stomach cramp with pangs of hunger, even though he wasn't all that hungry before. But he's not sure how Sherlock will take it, whether he'll grant permission or not. Sherlock had been adamant that John remain inside of the 221b before Moriarty intervened, but things are different now. He doesn't think he'd run away.

"Sherlock?" he ventures when the man doesn't respond. Sherlock does not look up, just flips to another page in the report. He's going through the pages so quickly it's dizzying to watch. John rolls his eyes, exasperated, and repeats his name louder. It takes three tries before Sherlock finally jerks his head up. There's a wild look in the verdigris eyes, and he takes almost a full minute to focus on John.

" _What_?" he says at last, in tones of great annoyance.

"Fresh biscuits," Mrs Hudson says, apparently unperturbed by the bite in Sherlock's voice. 

"I don't want any."

By some miracle, Mrs Hudson does not roll her eyes. "I gathered that. I wanted to know if John could pop downstairs to try them."

It's almost imperceptible, the way Sherlock stills briefly, before he waves his hand. "Yes, go ahead."

"Really?" John says before he can stop himself.

"Yes! Go, you're a constant interruption and I need to think!"

John doesn't question him a second time. Using the support of the chair, he pushes himself to his feet and limps quickly across the room. Mrs Hudson lets him out, closing the door gently, and she goes down the stairs first with John on her heels. "I thought you might be a bit bored up there," she confides. "Sherlock can get so involved in his work, and he forgets about everything else." Her voice is filled with so much fondness, it's astonishing. "But you've been such a good influence on him, John. Much better than that awful Moriarty."

"You think I've been good for him?" John says doubtfully as she shuffles to her door. He can't help noticing that the front door is right there, so close, not even locked. He could be out that door in a heartbeat. Just slip his shoes on and walk out, and he could be down the street or in a cab before Mrs Hudson could rouse Sherlock from the files. He turns away and follows her inside of her flat. 

The heat hits him first, a warm and homey feeling that causes a weight he didn't know he was carrying to fade away. Contrary to Sherlock's flat, which seems pitifully bare at times, Mrs Hudson has gone out of her way to make her flat a home. The walls are painted a cheery and welcoming shade of yellow, and the furniture is mismatched and a bit faded but in good shape. She's got little knick knacks and photographs everywhere he looks, and a lovely kitchen with platters of biscuits on every available surface. She ushers him into a chair at the table and puts a glass of milk into his left hand and a plate with half a dozen different kinds of biscuits near his right.

"Oh yes," she says at last, watching as he takes his first bite. "I don't want to be telling tales, but he was not very happy when he first came here. He was bored all the time, especially when that nice detective inspector didn't have any cases for him. It was even worse when he fell in with that Moriarty character. For a while there, I was beginning to think that Sherlock was going to end up in prison or worse." Her lips pinch into a thin, worried line. "You were on the streets, dear, I'm sure you heard all about the kind of reputation that he was getting."

The Shadow and the Snake, John thinks, and he swallows just a bit too hard. He coughs and takes a deep drink of milk. "I, ah, had heard a few things, yes," he says. "But I'm not sure that -"

"And then you came along, and now he's not so bored anymore." Mrs Hudson's smiling a very satisfied smile as she turns and takes another tray of biscuits out. "He's learning how to take care of someone, and you've been so patient with him, dear, you're a marvel."

It's like she's got some twisted vision of what's really happened, he realizes, torn between amusement and horror. Does she even remember the day she'd come up and found him stark naked and drugged, the day he'd begged her to help him? And she'd turned away and said that this was for the best, and that if he just gave in... it would be _easier_. He takes another slow bite of the biscuit, chocolate and nuts melting across his tongue, while he watches her and wonders, because he's only just realizing how little he knows about Mrs Hudson.

"I don't," he starts at last, the words thick, and then he stops because he's not sure how to finish that sentence. Because Sherlock is better, a little, than when John first met him. He doesn't leave John alone anymore, and John's got clothes and he gets fed regularly, and even Sherlock seems to be eating and sleeping more often than he did before. He doesn't even have contact with Moriarty, and that's probably the biggest change of all. And John has changed, too, hasn't he? This is the most freedom he's had in months and he hasn't tried to take advantage of it even once.

Mrs Hudson levels another smile at him and switches his empty glass of milk for a cup of tea. "How do you like him?" she asks, and when he gives her a blank look she nods to the biscuits.

"They're very good," John says a little helplessly.

"She's an excellent cook," Sherlock agrees.

John startles so badly that he sloshes blistering hot tea all over his hands and the table. He starts to jump up, but Sherlock is there before he can get very far. He takes the cup out of John's hands and pulls John up the rest of the way, pushing him over to the sink and switching the water on. Sticking his throbbing hands under cool, running water is as much of a relief as having Sherlock's warm, lanky form pressed up against him. At least with Sherlock so close to him he knows exactly where the bastard is.

"Sometimes I think you need a bell," he mumbles, barely audible over the water.

There's no way to see Sherlock's smirk, but John knows it's there. "You need to be more observant."

"I thought you were upstairs looking through Dimmock's files."

"I was."

That's all Sherlock says, and he offers no more, so it's a good thing John doesn't really need any more to know exactly what happened. He can picture it in his mind: Sherlock suddenly realizing that John was gone, wasn't in the rest of the flat, and coming downstairs to find more information. He wonders if Sherlock was expecting to find him here, or if he'd thought that John had taken off. Sherlock will never tell him even if he asks, but it's not like it matters: John suspects he knows the answer to that.

He sighs and relaxes into Sherlock's chest. "You're right," he says to no one in particular.

Sherlock shuts the water off and pats at John's hands with a cloth, peering at the bright red skin. "Of course I am. About what?"

"Mrs Hudson is an excellent cook," John says, and then he turns around and pulls Sherlock down into a kiss. The detective tenses against him in surprise, but before he can regain his bearings John has already ducked away. He gives Mrs Hudson his best smile and says, "More biscuits, please."

She giggles at the flummoxed Sherlock and says, "Right away, dear."


	30. Chapter 30

After that, the door 221b rarely gets locked when they're home. John is allowed to go downstairs to Mrs Hudson's whenever he likes, though he usually only tends to visit when he's absolutely certain that Sherlock is preoccupied with something else. He takes to leaving a pair of jeans and a jumper by the door so that he can grab them on the way by, and if Sherlock minds the compromise he never actually voices a complaint so John takes that as implicit permission. Mrs Hudson appears to be thrilled by the regular company, and John likes being able to go down without having to ask first. Though it doesn't escape his notice that if he lingers for too long, gets too caught up in watching telly, Sherlock will appear at the door and hover until John returns upstairs.

It is like this for nearly a week, and the only negative spot is the third crime scene with another victim who has been murdered and then been set up to make it look like a suicide. This time it's a young man, but it's no less repulsive to look at. Sherlock examines the body and makes a variety of strange faces, and he puts Lestrade off instead of telling him what he's already deduced about the Spider. Lestrade sighs a lot and gives John helpless looks, but all John can bring himself to do is shrug in reply. He's never forgotten Sherlock's threat about punishment, and anyway it's not his place to explain Sherlock's brilliance. And even if he wanted to, he doesn't know enough about this Spider to be able to explain.

"What are you going to do?" he asks as they return home, absently unbuttoning his shirt. The cotton is smooth beneath his fingertips. He drops the shirt onto the sofa, knowing that later on he'll be the one to collect it and put it away because Sherlock certainly won't. He unbuckles his belt and starts to let his jeans fall, but pauses when Sherlock holds up a hand.

"I need to think," he says. "Go down and visit with Mrs Hudson."

John twists his mouth at the command, but obediently does his jeans back up. He grabs for a jumper instead of the shirt, because it's gone cool in the flat without a fire burning, and retreats. He's learned that when Sherlock is thinking it's best to usually clear out anyway. Otherwise he's in for hours of sitting quietly on the floor and being scolded if he so much as shifts into a different position. He lingers by the door just long enough to watch Sherlock throw himself down on the sofa before he goes back down the stairs. Mrs Hudson's door is shut, and when he knocks there is no answer. 

"Mrs Hudson?" John calls as loudly as he dares. "It's me." He knows she's in, mostly because he can hear the sound of the telly. It sounds like one of those daytime shows she adores, and which John is developing a secret fondness for that he will never admit to. She never leaves the telly on when she's not home, claims that she knows of a friend's niece who nearly burnt down her flat by being so careless. 

There is a long moment of silence, broken only by the faint chattering of voices, and then the door opens a smidge. Mrs Hudson's face peers out at him. "Hello, dear."

It takes him a second to respond, because frankly she looks dreadful. Her skin is ashen and her lips look puffy and bruised, like she's been chewing on them, and there actually is a lovely bruise developing on her right cheekbone. It's spreading over to her hairline and down her jaw. John sucks in a sharp breath and reaches out instinctively, freezing when she flinches. "Oh god, sorry." He drops his hand awkwardly. "I just - that looks like it hurts. What have you done to yourself?"

"I tripped," she says with a wobbly smile and a wince. "Trying to carry too many groceries into my flat this morning. I wasn't watching where I was going, and my foot caught the edge of the rug. I dropped my eggs." Her expression crumbles, and John has exactly enough time to realize that there is something wrong before the door is fully wrenched open. The yell building in his throat dies a sudden death as he takes in the man holding a gun to Mrs Hudson's head. The man looks at him with flat, dark eyes and jerks his head before pressing the gun a bit more firmly to her temple.

Bloody hell, John thinks, staring at Mrs Hudson's teary eyes. He wants to shout for Sherlock, but there is no way to do that without causing that gun to go off - and at such close range, he knows that she will not survive. He knows that right down to his core. He takes a deep breath, drawing himself up, and gives a short nod. The man backs off, dragging Mrs Hudson with him, and allows John entry into the flat. John walks in slowly, making sure to keep his distance. His heart is beating very quickly and he can feel himself beginning to calm down as adrenaline spikes. He keeps an eye on the gun and stands still, waiting for the next command because he after Moriarty he is nothing if not trained for this.

"Close the door," says the man quietly. His voice is accented, but he speaks each word very clearly and concisely. John reaches a hand back and lightly pushes the door shut. Now that they are in better lighting, he can see that the man is of average height - about a head taller than John. He looks Asian, Chinese maybe, and has no hair. He's dressed entirely in black, including thick leather gloves and boots.

"Who are you?" John says, meeting Mrs Hudson's gaze. The terror he sees there makes him feel sick. He tries to communicate with her silently, tries to let her know that it will be alright, but he doesn't think he's having much luck. She closes her eyes with a soft moan, and he wonders how long she's been down here. Since he and Sherlock left? Since this morning? Since last night?

"You know who I am." The response is short, crisp, and the man nods towards the sofa. John's mind spins as he walks over and sits down, and by the time the man shoves Mrs Hudson down next to him he thinks he knows the answer.

"The Spider." He's not really sure where the words come from, but he doesn't need to see the faint quirk of the man's mouth to know that he's right. Mrs Hudson gives another little moan, and John turns towards her automatically. He starts to bring his arms up to hug her.

"Don't."

John freezes.

Whatever else the Spider may be, he is quick. In less than five minutes, he has tied John's ankles and wrists using both rope and handcuffs. It's a little overkill but it means that John hasn't got a chance of getting free. He tugs uselessly, straining against the bonds, while the Spider gets more rope and cuffs and does the same thing to poor Mrs Hudson. He's not sure whether to be relieved or not that she passes out about halfway through, her body just going lax, and because of it she gets left on the sofa while John is picked up and tossed roughly on the floor. 

"Why are you doing this?" John asks, because he can't keep quiet, not anymore, and the urge to cry for Sherlock's help has not abated but that gun is still far too close to Mrs Hudson for comfort. 

"Moriarty doesn't want you to interfere."

"With whmmph!" He tries, unsuccessfully, to jerk his head away. The wad of fabric rudely stuffed into his mouth comes with him, and the Spider grips his jaw to keep him still. A second bolt of fabric is wound around his head and tied firmly, keeping him completely silent. John swallows, nearly gagging, and goes still because it would be terrifyingly easy to choke if he doesn't.

The Spider smirks at him, eyes still flat, and gets his gun. He leaves the flat and John listens to the sounds of his footsteps ascending the stairs. John breathes shallowly, hoping to hear - well, he's not really sure what, just something - anything - that means Sherlock is the one winning. But there is only a terrifying silence that stretches endlessly, and he realizes that the insulation between 221b and 221a is working a little too well. 

And then he hears the sound of a gunshot, because nothing can mask that. John makes a low sound in the back of his throat, and it burns. Spots dance in front of his eyes, Mrs Hudson's still unconscious body fading in and out. He has to struggle to get his breathing under control, remind himself to take slow breaths instead of letting the unbearable tightness in his chest take control. He hears more footsteps on the stairs, deeper and harder, maybe just hard enough for someone to be carrying a body, and oh god he hopes _so desperately_ that it hurts. 

The front door opens and closes, and then there is only silence.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may have got 2 alerts for this. There's only 1 new chapter; I accidentally uploaded the wrong piece the first time around and had to delete it.

Living on the street has taught John a good deal about the value of time. He knows just how much, how _easily_ , life can change in a split second. He also knows just how long minutes can seem sometimes, and the answer is impossibly long. He's never really sure how long he's in Mrs Hudson's flat before help finally arrives. It could be as short as half an hour or as long as a day. Mrs Hudson or, more likely, the Spider has the curtains shut, allowing no real source of light for him to accurately keep track by the sun, and he can't see a clock from where he's laying on the floor. The only redeeming quality about the minutes, hours, days that he waits is that Mrs Hudson remains blessedly unconscious, because he honestly thinks heart failure is a legitimate concern if she woke up to this.

Footsteps and a scraping sound at the door are his first clue, and he goes tense as he tries to roll over onto his back. No one calls out to him and he's thinking that the Spider might have returned to finish the job when the door finally opens. A young woman is standing there, all long dark curls and an expensive black suit, holding a Blackberry in her hands. She glances around the room with a blank expression, as though she's just stopped by a store and hasn't seen anything in particular that she really cares to purchase. John makes a desperate, needy sound that makes his throat hurt, and she casts him an amused look before she turns around. For a dreadful moment he thinks she's leaving, but no - 

"They're in here. Do be careful, and ask the paramedics to come in," she says.

Several men in black suits with guns file in. One of them kneels down next to John and expertly picks the lock on the cuffs, then cuts through the rope with a knife so sharp it leaves tiny little nicks all over John's hands. He thanks god that he's wearing clothing as the man frees his ankles and then slices the gag off. His jaw aches as the wad of fabric is removed, but before he can do anything there is a paramedic crouching in front of him and thrusting an oxygen mask over his mouth. John rears back, annoyed, but the paramedic just follows his progress. She refuses to give up until John sits there and lets her press the mask over his mouth and nose, but it does little to help regulate his breathing and she knows it, judging by the annoyed tick of her eyebrows.

Finally, he can stand it no more and he shoves the stupid mask away. "Sherlock," he says hoarsely, and maybe that wasn't such a good idea after all. The room has gone suspiciously grey at the corners of his eyes, and his lungs feel tight. "Sherlock -"

"He's gone." Mycroft's voice enters the room before he does, his imposing presence silencing John as surely as a briskly worded command. The paramedic huffs and comes after him with the mask again as Mycroft continues, "I have the flat under surveillance, but since Sherlock regularly uses a gun for his own amusement it was some time before my men realized that there was anything wrong." His eyes are cold and dark and deep. "Do you know what happened, John?"

There is a question there that has not been asked, one that says _why didn't you protect him?_ and John feels sick. "It was the Spider," he says, trying not to think about what this means for Sherlock. About where he might be, and who he might be with. Moriarty had whispered to him, once or twice, about what he would like to do with Sherlock. John's torture had been nothing compared to that psychopath's plans for Sherlock. 

Mycroft's face shuts down. "I see."

"You have to find him, Mycroft," John says, and okay yes, he's begging. "Please, you have to -"

"It's no longer any of your concern, John. I'm afraid that your services are no longer required."

John stares at him. "What?"

"You will be treated by the paramedics and taken to the hospital if necessary. When you're granted fit for release, or immediately if you don't need to go, you will be taken to your sister's house. Both of you will be more than adequately provided for so long as you do not try to contact me again."

The words are making John's head spin. He doesn't know what to deal with first. He has a sister? Mycroft doesn't want him to stay here and wait for Sherlock? He's being set free? "I don't understand," he says honestly, and this time when he tries to get to his feet the paramedic doesn't push him back down. He wobbles, but he makes it even though he's swaying a little. "Mycroft, why are you - Sherlock won't want this, he'll expect me to be here waiting for him when he..." And John trails off, because the truth has just finally sunk in on him and it's a little bit harder to stand and breathe.

_Mycroft doesn't expect Sherlock to ever come back._

"Yes," Mycroft says shortly, and he looks at John the way John imagines someone would look at a puppy that's just been dropped off at the pound. "You see, then. I don't have the time or desire to take care of you, and frankly I think I've indulged my brother as far as I'm going to. I allowed you to stay because you were good for Sherlock and because I thought you might do as extra protection. Clearly I was wrong." It looks like it hurts to admit that, his mouth twists so hard. 

"This isn't a game!" John says desperately, his ears ringing. He's being offered everything on a silver platter: he can find out about his family, his life, his history. He can meet his sister, see where she lives and what she does and find out who she is. They'll both be provided for, whatever that means, and he won't ever have to get naked for someone unless he wants to or be humiliated or shamed again. It's what he's hardly dared to dream about: freedom from Sherlock Holmes, and the only cost is never having to think about the man ever again.

As though realizing John has nothing more to say, Mycroft turns on his heel and strides out of the room. When the paramedic hustles a numb John out a few minutes later, Mycroft is gone. The woman with the Blackberry is still there, though, and she lingers near them as John is thoroughly checked over. They put some ointment on his bruises and bandage a couple of the worst nicks on his hands and check his feet again, but there's really no need for him to go to the hospital. He's a bit dehydrated and he'll be sore for the next few days, the paramedic says with a chirpy smile and a pat to his shoulder, but overall there's been no lasting damage. John just looks at her and has to fight back the urge to laugh in her face.

"Here," the woman with the Blackberry says, and she shoves a file folder into his hands. "That car is going to take you to your sister's house."

"But I..." John stares down at the file and remembers what Sherlock had said about Mycroft's file, the information it contained. He goes silent and lets the woman push and prod him into the car. Baker Street disappears behind them as John opens up the folder.

He's a soldier. A doctor, actually, just as Sherlock said. Doctor John Hamish Watson, according to the file. He's in his late thirties and in fairly good health, though he thinks wryly that's probably not quite true anymore. His parents are both deceased, having recently died in the past five years - his mother of a heart attack, his father of complications from surgery - and he does, indeed, have a sister. Her name is Harry, short for Harriet, and she lives on the other side of London in a two bedroom flat.

John reads through it quickly, barely absorbing anything other than the bare facts, and when he's done he goes back to page one and starts over again. He was born outside of London, spent his childhood in a small town, and joined the army as a way to get through medical school without having to pay the fees his family couldn't afford. His sister, who never attended university, works as a waitress downtown in one of the bars. He was in Afghanistan for three years before he was shot and sent home, and that's where it gets sort of cloudy because he dropped off of the radar after going on the street.

His whole life is there, right there, and by the time he's read through it a fourth time he's memorized the whole thing. Some bits ring true, but others seem as though they're being told about someone completely different. For example, the file says he likes women and that he had quite the reputation in the army for having left several broken hearts behind on at least three different continents. That sounds - it's just not _John_. But it must be, isn't it? These are the parts of him that were taken, the parts he wanted back.

The car pulls up and the driver gets out, and before he knows it John is left standing on the pavement in front of a building he does not recognize. His hands are shaking and his mouth is dry and his shoulder aches, and he can't stop thinking about how much he wants Sherlock. He can't let himself think about how Sherlock will never be there again, because that makes him feel like he's sinking, and his chest goes tight again and he can't really breathe anymore.

Then someone yells, "Oh my god, Johnny?" and an exuberant blonde woman runs over and throws her arms around him, and he stops thinking at all.


	32. Chapter 32

The blonde woman turns out to be Harriet Watson - Harry, as she likes to be called, judging by how she laughs and swats at John's arm hard enough to leave a bruise behind when he calls her the former. Her hair is a few shades lighter than his, not yet streaked with premature grey, but she's got exactly the same colour eyes and the same nose. John can't stop staring at her as she grabs him by the arm and physically pulls him up the stairs. She opens the front door and they walk to the lift, which takes them up to the fourth floor.

"Jesus fuck, Johnny, I haven't seen you in months," she's saying, shifting the bags of groceries in her arms. He feels like he should take them from her to be polite, but something in her body language suggests she won't take kindly to that sort of thing so he refrains. "I tried to call your phone a bunch of times, but you never answered. I guess I thought - but then you just show up out of nowhere and it's like, where have you been?"

He wonders what she was going to say before she cut herself off. "I've been around," he says finally, lamely, aware that it's a truly pitiful response. Obviously she's been worried about him, and she's probably going to push for a lot more than just 'around'. He has no idea what to say. The truth? Absolutely not. If she believes him, she'll make him call the police and that's not going to help anyone, not anymore. But what kind of lie can a brother give to justify not contacting his little sister for months on end?

Harry's face changes, and she gives a curt nod. She doesn't say anything else, and it doesn't take long for the silence to become uncomfortable. Fortunately, the distraction of her opening the door to her flat helps. John walks into the living room, realizing that it's actually a nice place. The furniture is all dark leather and the accent pieces are cream, with walls that are a very pale green. It's not what he would have expected Harry to choose, but it looks good regardless, homey and welcoming.

"You can take a seat there," Harry says, tipping her chin towards the chair. "I'll get something - you want a drink?"

John just blinks at her, because he can't remember the last time he was asked that - Sherlock usually just gives him food and or things to drink and then stands over him until they're consumed whether John wants them or not. Mrs Hudson will ask, but it's more of a formality: she never actually takes no for an answer. The silence drags on for just a bit too long, and by the time he notices that Harry has gone tense it's too late. She huffs into the kitchen and he's left standing there staring at the spot where she used to be.

"You know," she calls from the kitchen, "I haven't touched a drink in two months. If that's what you were trying to imply." Her tone says all too clearly that she knows that's _exactly_ what he was trying to imply. "I know the last time we talked you were really mad at me. I didn't actually think you'd follow through on your threat not to talk to me until I got myself in order, but I... Well." She emerges clutching two glasses of water. "It's been two months, John. I'm actually doing it this time, I swear."

The way she stands there, looking at him like she's waiting for validation, just about breaks John's heart. Because he can't give her that. He's not the man who fought with her, the one who threatened her, the older brother who'd worried about her. He manages a smile, knowing that whatever he says will not be what she wants to hear. "That's - that's great, Harry. I'm really happy to hear it."

Her smile tightens when it becomes obvious that's all he's got to say, but she comes into the room and hands him a glass of water before sitting down on the sofa. "Yeah, it's going good," she says quietly. "I've been going to my meetings and keeping up with my sponsor. He says that I might even make it to three months this time." Her smile is half-hearted and crooked.

"That's great," John repeats, uncertain as to what else he should offer. "I, um, how's work?"

"If this is another lecture about me working at a bar -"

"No! Christ, no, I just, I want to know."

She watches him for a moment longer, eyes narrowed, before she relaxes enough to say, "I still really like it. I'm still working as a waitress, but D.K. says that if I keep it up I could be promoted to supervisor at my next review. That's less than two weeks away. It means I'd be making two pounds an hour more than I do right now, plus tips. And I'd be able to pick my own hours." She pauses to sip at her water. "What about you, John? I know you said you were around, but you've got to be able to tell me more than that. What the fuck have you been doing for the past what, seven, eight months?"

"Nothing much until recently," he says, which is true enough. "I... I met this guy, this detective bloke. He helps the police solve cases. I've... sort of been working with him."

"A _guy_?" Harry's eyebrows lift so high they practically disappear into her hairline. "I didn't know you were interested in men."

"It's not -" John stops, because really it is like that, isn't it? Even now, he misses Sherlock so much that he can hardly breathe through it. Being outside of the flat without Sherlock makes him twitchy and uneasy, because he doesn't go anywhere alone anymore and this is all a painfully stark reminder that Sherlock isn't here. That Sherlock might be dead. That even if he isn't, John will never see him again.

"John?" Her voice cuts through the dull haze of panic, and she scoots closer to him. "What happened? Did you have a fight?"

"You could say that," he says after a few seconds of thought. His throat feels tight. "I don't know if I'm ever going to see him again. It scares me."

Harry looks astonished. "Jesus, you must really be in love," she breathes. "I haven't heard you admit to being scared of anything since you were five years old and the ten-year-old up the street was threatening to beat you up because you got him in trouble with his mum for stealing my bike. What did you guys fight about?"

"I don't want to talk about it." That seems like the easiest thing to say, even if it does make him feel like shit to see the way that Harry's open, engaged face suddenly shuts down. She even sits back a little, and it makes the space between them seem a lot larger.

"Oh. Well, okay. But if you ever do want to talk, I'm here." She examines her glass of water like it's endlessly fascinating. "I suppose you'll be needing a place to sleep, then."

"If you don't mind." He hasn't got anywhere else to go but back to the streets. And he could do that, has already lived that way for six months, but how is he supposed to just forget about Sherlock? It's the only home John really knows. Looking around Harry's flat, at the photos that line the mantelpiece of her fireplace and the walls, it's like looking at someone else's life. He recognizes the blond man in some of the pictures as a younger version of himself, but none of them mean anything. Not even the slightest flicker of familiarity. He doesn't even remember his own sister's face.

"Not at all. It'll be like when we were younger, having sleepovers, only I've got to head to work. I was just out getting some groceries because everything will be closed tonight by the time I'm off." She gets up, and for the first time he notices that she's wearing a uniform. It's a simple red blouse over black pants and comfortable black shoes. "Will you be okay while I'm gone?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine." He trails her into the kitchen, watching as she sets the two glasses down in the sink and grabs her purse.

"There's an extra key in the dish in the cupboard, if you want to go out," she calls over her shoulder, and then the door shuts and he's alone.

For a couple of minutes, he just stands there. The flat seems very quiet without Harry around, and he has no idea what to do with himself. A quick glance at the clock tells him it's nearly nine, so right about this time he'd normally be watching Sherlock pour over case files while trying not to fall asleep on the floor. Sometimes, if Sherlock is in a good mood, he'll sit in his chair and let John lean against his legs. John's lost count of how many times he'd fallen asleep like that, only to get a rude awakening when Sherlock jumped up.

Thoughts of Sherlock don't offer any comfort. He wanders back into the living room and sits down, pulling the file back into his lap. Not too long ago, he would've given his right arm to have ended up in this situation. Harry appears to be a perfectly nice woman, and more than that she's willing to let him stay with few questions asked. It'll take time, but he can see how this could work: he can get a job somewhere, get his own flat, move on with his life. It should be exciting.

But it's not, it's terrifying, and all he wants is Sherlock and his comfortable home at 221b back.


	33. Chapter 33

Harry doesn't ask questions. John had thought she might, but she doesn't. If she wonders where he's been or what he's been doing, why he hasn't contacted her in all this time - because even with a fight, they're still siblings right? - she never once asks. He spends the first two days at her flat on pins and needles, wondering when she will. After the third day, when the most difficult question she's asked him is during breakfast that morning and is no more complicated than whether or not he still likes his tea with milk instead of sugar, he realizes that she isn't going to. 

She doesn't mention their past, either. He thinks that's going to be an issue at first. He doesn't remember growing up with her, or their parents, or going to university, or her marriage to - he checks the file for the name just in case - Clara. But. Harry doesn't talk about it. It's like the past is one of those topics she deems off limits, and she just expects him to fall in with that. Which he does, of course, because it's not like John is going to be the one who brings it up when it would just invite questions he doesn't want to answer. But.

It just makes him realize how, in spite of the fact that they're brother and sister, they actually have a piss poor relationship. Harry doesn't ask because she doesn't care, because she doesn't want to invite his scrutiny or his criticism on her life and choices, and it probably makes him a shit brother that he's relieved about that. They're like two flatmates who are sharing the same space out of necessity, who don't ever really interact beyond conversation that is almost appallingly polite. He gets up first, has breakfast, watches telly. Harry gets up, they have lunch. She goes out, he watches telly. She comes home, they have dinner, she goes to work, he watches telly.

After five days, John feels like he's going out of his mind with boredom. 

Harry must realize this, because on the fifth day she says, "You know, you don't have to stay here all the time. You could come with me if you want, tonight."

"To the club?"

Her lips twitch. "I promise no one will hit on you if that's what you're worried about."

It's not. "I don't know, Harry."

"It's your choice, Johnny. If you don't want to come then don't." She sighs loudly on her way out of the room and he gets the feeling he's slighted her somehow.

The thought of going out is sort of appealing. Harry's flat is a lot smaller than 221b, and he's beginning to feel a little stir crazy - Harry isn't half as interesting as Sherlock, and he's at a total loss as to what he should do with himself. He's used to Sherlock deciding how they will spend every moment of their day, and now each one stretches empty ahead of him and that's, well. He washes the dishes and stares at the telly without turning it on and finally decides that maybe getting out of the flat is a good idea after all.

The subtle way Harry's face lights up when he meets her at the door before she leaves for work helps to combat the cold panic that crawls down his spine when they're actually standing on pavement. Any one of the people walking by could be working for Moriarty, and he walks stiffly beside Harry, trying not to make it obvious that he's studying the people around them for anyone slightly familiar. She doesn't seem to notice, chattering lightly about her job and how she's being trained in learning more about what goes into each drink. 

"That's it right there," she says, pointing to a bar across the street, and they cross together with Harry actually hanging off of his arm. She tugs him right past the line and inside with only a nod to the bouncer. The bar is surprisingly quiet for the moment, but there is a dance floor and people who are gathering around it with an air of anticipation. Harry heads right for the bar, still pulling John along with her, and she pushes him down onto one of the stools.

"Hey Harry," the guy behind the counter says. "Who's this?"

"My brother, John." Harry's grin is excited, anticipatory, and she slides around behind the bar like a pro. "Can I get you anything, Johnny?"

John can't remember having had alcohol before. "Just water, please," he says, deciding that it's safer not to risk it. Not when his palms are so sweaty he keeps having to wipe them on his jeans. 

"Water? That's boring. At least have a glass of soda." Harry deftly grabs one of the neatly stacked glasses and fills it up with a dark cola. She slides it across the bar with a flick of her wrist. "Here. I've got to go get signed in. Don't be afraid to mingle a little, yeah?" She grins at him and walks away, disappearing through a door at the end of the counter.

The bar begins to fill up quickly as the bouncers outside allow more people in, and after about fifteen minutes the music starts. It's loud and fast and the dance floor gets crowded right away. A couple of women send sweet, inviting smiles John's way, but he shoots them apologetic looks and stays right where he is. He keeps watch for Harry and finally spots her, scooting around the edge of the dance floor with a tray of drinks in her hand. She's laughing and dancing her way over to a table, and he has to admit that this job seems to be good for her. He can't imagine many alcoholics do well dealing with alcohol on a daily basis, but Harry appears to be flourishing.

He turns back to the bar and nearly chokes on his drink when he realizes that he's got company. Sally Donovan raises an eyebrow as she reaches for her drink, something golden-coloured in a little shot glass that she tosses back gracefully. "What, did the freak let you out without your leash?" she says above the sound of the music, not yelling, just loud enough to be heard. "Don't tell me he's here, I'd have to find a new favourite place to unwind."

"He's not here," John says. It's probably not audible, but Donovan's watching his mouth closely enough that the words, or at least the point, must get across. She nods.

"What are you drinking, then?"

"Just cola."

"That it? I'd think, living with him, you'd need something stronger to unwind." She grins, not unfriendly, a quick flash of white teeth in the brilliant lights of the club. She looks pretty, her hair down around her shoulders, in a nice blue dress that compliments the best of her curves.

"I'm not living with him anymore." He doesn't know why he says that, but once it's out the lazy enjoyment on Donovan's face goes away quick.

"You're not? Fuck, this is going to make him even _more_ miserable -"

"He was kidnapped."

For a split second, her face registers disbelief. John looks away, staring hard into his glass, and tosses back the last of the cola like it'll take care of the stinging in his eyes. He sets it down on the bar and a hand with artfully painted nails comes out and wraps around his wrist, tightens and pulls. He goes along willingly, allowing Donovan to part the way through the crowds. They don't go out the front, she takes him to a side exit that lets them out into an alley. The quiet is startling after the loud music in the club.

Donovan says, "Tell me what happened."

"Why? It's not like you care."

"I don't like Sherlock Holmes. I think he's an arrogant son of a bitch that could do with a good kick in the arse. But I'm also an officer of the law. You're damn right I care." Her voices get low and vicious and she backs him up against the wall, refusing to step aside. "Tell me. What. Happened."

"Sherlock was kidnapped by someone Moriarty hired. The Spider. You and Lestrade have been looking for him... Sherlock thinks he might've been the one who killed all those suicides." As he talks, a hard pressure inside of his chest finally begins to ease. "Five days ago I went down to visit our landlady and the Spider was in there already. He tied her up and then me, and then he went upstairs. I heard a gunshot and someone came down the stairs. Whoever it was, I think it was the Spider taking Sherlock, left without coming in."

"So you don't know if Holmes is alive," she says.

"No."

"Why didn't you call Lestrade?"

"His brother -" That's all he gets out before Donovan starts swearing. She has a very colourful vocabulary, as it turns out, and he listens to her in awed silence as she gets her phone out and starts hitting buttons with a lot more force than really necessary.

"I don't fucking care that it's 3am," she bites out into the phone. "Did you know that your favourite psychopath has gone missing?"

"Sociopath," John mutters. 

Donovan ignores him. "Well, I'm standing here with the freak's assistant and he says that Holmes is missing. We ran into each other and he - yes, I'm sure. Here." She thrusts the phone into John's face. John takes it slowly and puts it up to his ear.

"Hello?"

"John?"

It's Lestrade. John shouldn't be surprised by that, but he is. He clings to the phone and swallows hard. "Yeah."

"What happened, John?" Lestrade's voice changes from brisk to soothing, the sort of voice he might use with a traumatized victim to coax out information. 

"It was Moriarty," John gets out.

"Fuck," Lestrade mutters. "Fucking Mycroft and his fucking penchant for being so fucking mysterious - look, John, Sally's going to bring you down to the Yard, okay? I'll meet the two of you there."

"Alright."

"And John - John, it's going to be okay. We'll find him."

The stinging around his eyes gets worse. John blinks rapidly. The only word he can force out is a single, shaky, "Okay."


	34. Chapter 34

Scotland Yard is almost empty, not surprising considering the time of night, with only the bare minimum of staff trundling around blearily. Not a single one of the officers standing around give Donovan or John a second glance as they walk past and head into the lift. Donovan hasn't said a word since John found Harry and let her know that he was leaving. He suspects that she didn't appreciate Harry's obnoxious and lascivious wink as she said good-bye any more than John had, but he'd realized over the past five days that that's just the way Harry is. He knows that she probably thinks her brother and the hot woman he'd picked up are having sex right now, and since there's really no other explanation he wanted to give her he didn't bother to correct it.

The lift opens and Donovan strides out, heels clicking sharply on the linoleum, without waiting to see if John is going to follow. She heads straight towards an office over in the corner of the room and pushes the door open without bothering to knock. "I thought you were going to start keeping a closer eye on the freak," she says, sounding miffed. "How the hell did you let him get kidnapped?"

"I didn't _let_ him get kidnapped, if you recall I had no idea." Lestrade looks fairly alert considering that not half an hour ago he was, presumably, sound asleep. He's sitting behind his desk, but he gets to his feet as they enter. "John, how are you?"

"I've been better," John says, the hair on the back of his neck prickling when Donovan and Lestrade exchange a weighted look.

"Have you been drinking?" Lestrade asks.

"No!"

"Sorry, got to ask." Waving him into the free chair, Lestrade sinks back down into his own. John sits as Donovan disappears. "What can you tell me about Sherlock's disappearance, John? Remember, every detail could be important so try to give me as much as you can."

"Alright." John thinks back, back to the stupidly little things that Sherlock is always harping on about, the things that no one ever pays any attention to but which mean so much. He starts off slowly. "Sherlock was looking through some files. He'd told me that he thought that the killer you were looking for was the Spider." At the way Lestrade's eyes brighten, he thinks Dimmock's probably already screwed. "But he wasn't completely sure, and I think he was searching for evidence to back up his claim before he mentioned it to you. We came home from the third crime scene and he decided that he needed some time to think."

"What files was he looking through? One that I gave him?"

"No, one he got from Dimmock." He says it without hesitation, because he wasn't the one who promised to keep Lestrade from finding out.

"I see. What were you doing?"

"What I usually do when Sherlock decides that he needs time to think. I went downstairs to visit with Mrs Hudson. She's been on a baking kick lately, says she needs to feed me and Sherlock up a little." He rubs his stomach absently. He hasn't even though about Mrs Hudson in the past five days, mostly because he hasn't stopped thinking about Sherlock. The realization makes him feel guilty. He should've gone back to Baker Street to see if she was alright, made sure she wasn't hurt. 

"And what happened when you went downstairs?"

"Mrs Hudson opened the door." Here's where the details get a little fuzzy. It all happened so fast, John can't remember exactly what was said and done. He explains what he remembers to Lestrade and Donovan, who returns bearing three cups of steaming coffee, as best he can. "The Spider had her. I don't know for how long he was there for, maybe all morning, poor thing. She was terrified and he was threatening to hurt her. I had to let him tie me up. Then he tied her up. He went upstairs and I heard a gunshot. Heavy footsteps coming down. The front door opened and shut." He swallows a gulp of coffee, burning the back of his throat, and says a little unsteadily, "And then Mycroft showed up, had someone check me over, and took me to Harry's flat. He told me not to come back."

"Harry. Your sister?" says Donovan.

John nods, giving her an apologetic look that he hopes helps to make up for Harry's mistaken assumption. "I tried to call Sherlock once or twice, but he's not answering his phone. I didn't... I have no idea where he might be. I just know that Moriarty is the one who took him." And god, even just saying that is enough to make John's stomach go cold. 

"You should've come to us right away," says Lestrade, looking up from his notepad. He's been scribbling notes madly during John's little tale, at least two pages covered in illegible black writing. "The trail would've been fresher and we've might have the chance to look at the scene before Mycroft had it cleaned up."

"I'm sorry." 

"It's alright. Might be for the best in the end. Mycroft will have probably stopped watching you by now." Lestrade sits up straight. "I think it's probably safe to assume that Sherlock was getting close to finding Moriarty, and that's why the Spider was sent to bring him in." He folds his hands together and looks at John with a very serious expression. "John, I know that the two of them had some little fight going on. I know that for years, Sherlock was a lot closer to Moriarty than he ever wanted me to be aware of. It's odd, you know, what can tip the scale in one direction or the other. Until Moriarty kidnapped you, I wasn't sure that Sherlock wasn't going to fully join him and become a proper criminal."

Donovan's mouth falls open. "You knew that Holmes was consorting with a criminal and you didn't bring him in?" she squeaks.

"It was a personal choice, Sally. I made the best decision possible after fully examining each angle. I knew that if I treated Sherlock like a criminal, he would've become one. And whatever Sherlock might have dabbled in before, you have no idea what he would be capable of if he decided to go that route permanently." There is not an ounce of regret in Lestrade's face.

"You..." Donovan looks like she can't decide how to finish that sentence.

"You're right," John says before she can come up with something, and both of them turn to look at him. There is a chance that Sherlock will be angry at him for divulging this information, but John doesn't care. As long as Sherlock is actually _here_ to make it happen, John will gladly strip naked and bend over the man's knees for as long a spanking as Sherlock wants. "And Moriarty was really mad that Sherlock wasn't going to be his partner. He kept saying that he was going to make Sherlock regret it."

"Do you have any idea of where Moriarty might have taken him?" Lestrade asks.

"No, sorry. When Moriarty had me, he moved me around constantly. He kept drugging me and every time I woke up I'd be somewhere else." He knows without having to ask that Moriarty won't have taken Sherlock anywhere he took John, mostly because he remembers Moriarty telling him about the bombs that had destroyed each place. He meets Lestrade's gaze. "Mycroft said - he didn't think that Sherlock was going to come back."

Lestrade's jaw tightens fractionally and he doesn't say anything for a moment. He doesn't have to, the anger is written clearly in his face. "Mycroft Holmes is a bastard, John, and we're not going to give up as easily as he did." He gets to his feet. "Come on, we're going to visit the flat."

"Now?" 

"Yes, now." Lestrade stands up and comes around the desk with a look on his face that makes it impossible to argue, and really John doesn't want to. He stands up and follows Lestrade out of the room, noticing that Donovan fails to come with them. However, by the time they get down to Lestrade's car she catches up. Lestrade raises an eyebrow at her and she sneers.

"I'm not too impressed with how wrapped around Holmes's little finger you are, but he's still been kidnapped and it's my job to help find him," she says grudgingly, opening the back door and climbing in.

Fortunately Lestrade seems to know her well enough to realize that any comment will not get over well. He just grins and gets in the driver's seat. John gets in and buckles his seatbelt, holding on tight. It turns out that Lestrade is kind of a manic driver, or maybe that's just when someone he cares about is in danger, John's not sure. But either way he suddenly understands why Donovan didn't argue about letting John sit in the front. The car screeches to a stop outside of 221b in less than ten minutes and for a second John just sits there, heart hammering, and wonders if there's more to Sherlock's refusal to get into a cop car than he lets on.

"Well, come on then," Lestrade says, hopping out. Donovan gives John a commiserating pat on the shoulder as they follow Lestrade up to the front door.

"You get used to it," she says with a faint smirk.

"Right," John mutters, shaking his head. He stays quiet as Lestrade knocks, gentle at first and then more firmly. When no one answers, he tries the knob. It gives, allowing them entrance. Everything is silent, with nothing from 221a to indicate Mrs Hudson has heard them. As much as John wants to see her, he shakes his head at Lestrade. There is no point in waking her up now.

John goes up the stairs first to 221b. He has to consciously stop himself from stripping off as soon as he enters, has to force his hands away from the hem of his shirt as he steps aside to allow Donovan and Lestrade entrance. At first glance, the flat looks the same as always except for one glaring difference: his rug is missing. His throat tightens at the idea of what that mean, why it might be gone: to remove a body? Or to get rid of the bloodstains left behind? 

"I'm not going to find body parts, am I?" Donovan asks with an uneasy glance at the kitchen.

"You might." John can't match the light-hearted tone, he _can't_. Not until he knows what happened, not until Sherlock comes back.


	35. Chapter 35

They spread out. Donovan and Lestrade seem to have more of a familiarity with the flat than John is expecting, so he leaves the sitting room and the kitchen in their hands and goes down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom. The sound of Donovan's paranoid voice muttering about freaks who play with body parts fades behind him as he steps into the room, thankful that the door was not locked. He doesn't want to think about the questions that would've arisen if they'd heard him breaking the door down. He stands in the doorway and looks around, searching for something that might be out of place.

Right away, he notices that there are files missing from Sherlock's desk. Sherlock is the sort of man who is usually surrounded by organized chaos (as he likes to call it) and after several days of examination from a distance John had realized that there was a certain order, strange though it might have been, to the files piled high on his desk. And even though John doesn't know which files are gone, he knows that the stack is different. He crosses to the desk and looks down at the ones left behind, thinking that they might be worth looking through to make sure that there are no hints as to Sherlock's whereabouts. It's unlikely that Mycroft would've missed anything pertaining to Moriarty, but it's possible.

He leaves them alone for the time being and moves on, but there really isn't much else to look at. Sherlock's closet seems to be untouched, the collection of carefully pressed trousers, jeans and shirts the one visibly neat thing in the whole room. He kneels, shifting around the shoes and files cluttering the floor, and finds a small black box tucked away into the back of the closet. Significant only because it's the one thing that Sherlock seemed to be trying to hide, John can't resist opening it.

It's not what he's expecting. But then, he's not sure what he was expecting... just not this. An unfamiliar gun, all identifying characteristics long since filed off, and John picks it up with careful fingers. His hands know what to do, he realizes, watching in awe as he automatically checks the chamber for bullets. Each one is accounted for, and he guesses that the gun has not been shot for some time - if ever. He wonders what Sherlock was doing with it, if he truly felt so threatened by all of Moriarty's plans that he'd kept a secret gun in the closet, and there is something inherently sad in that that makes John's heart hurt.

When he puts the box back he keeps the gun.

He turns around to go back to the files on the desk and that's when he sees it. The bed has been carefully made, likely by Mrs. Hudson since the last time John saw the bed it was a mess, and in the very middle of it rests something small and black and unfamiliar. It's only when he gets closer that he realizes it's a mobile phone, but not the one that Sherlock regularly uses. He picks it up and it's light in his hands, sleek with a top that slides up to reveal the screen. 

"Mycroft wouldn't have missed this," John mutters, looking down at the phone. Which means that someone has been here since Mycroft's men swept the flat. Someone came in and left this here. Moriarty? One of his men? Why? He glances at the door before flipping the top up. The screen brightens and chimes, and John nearly drops the phone because he _remembers_ that sound. The last time he'd heard it, he'd been drugged and curled up on a ratty old bed in some flat crying and listening to the sound of Sherlock's soothing voice. Right before Moran broke into the room.

A new text message comes up on the screen. John's hands are shaking too hard for him to be able to read it. He sits down on the bed and squeezes his eyes shut, takes a couple of deep breathes before trying again. This time, he manages.

_Hello, pet._

That's it. That's all it says.

 _Whr is Shrlck_ he types back. The words come out wrong, but the buttons are tiny and awkward. He hits send anyway and waits, tense. He jumps when the phone beeps.

_5 days, thought you loved your master more than that._

_Shrlck_

_When you're mine, I'll teach you better manners._ Moriarty sends back, and before John can respond the phone is beeping with a new message, a picture, and it opens automatically.

John's heart skips a beat. The picture is one of Sherlock, but the man does not look well at all. He's clearly been drugged, his head is lolling back and even through the grainy photo it's evident his face is slack, eyes unfocused. He's missing his shirt and his whole upper torso is now an ugly patchwork of purple-blue-black, with lingering edges of yellow and green. An angry red line has been drawn around his pale throat - John knows all too well what that's from, though it looks like Moran's graduated from using his hands. Two of the fingers on his right hand are bent back, clearly broken, along with the ring finger on his left hand. The view cuts off at his waist, and John dreads thinking of what the bottom half of him looks like.

 _if you hurt him ill kill you_ John types out, painstaking, trying to make sure the threat is clear. No answer comes back even though he waits, and he knows that somewhere in the city Moriarty is probably laughing. The thought burns and he gets up, heading out of the room fast.

"I'm telling you, I don't want to know what it is," Donovan is saying. She's got her arms crossed and is staring at the refrigerator with a look of mild horror and disgust. "I mean it, I'm not opening that door back up. One look was bad enough. Knowing the freak, it could be anything."

"Why don't I look," says Lestrade reluctantly, though the look on his face speaks volumes about how little he wants to open that door.

"I found something," says John, and both of them swing towards him wearing expressions of what can only be termed deep relief. He holds up the phone. "This was on the bed when I went in. When I turned it on, there was a new message waiting. It's from Moriarty. I think he must have had someone sneak back in after Mycroft left and put it there for me to find." He tries not to sound bitter about the fact that he's played right into Moriarty's little plans all over again. It's one thing for Sherlock to find him predictable. It's another thing entirely for a psychopath to be able to do it.

"What was the - oh." Donovan's face goes all tight when she sees the picture, her mouth pressing into a thin line. Lestrade looks very old. John sets the phone down gently on the table and all three of them bend over it, staring down at the photograph. In the bright light, Sherlock looks even worse off. Five days in Moriarty's company has not been treating him well. If they leave him there much longer, John can't help but think that he really might not be coming back.

"Fuck," Lestrade says at last, the word filled with weariness. He touches a button and goes back to the text messages, taking in the short exchange of texts. If he thinks anything when he sees the comment about pet and master, he doesn't mention it. "Donovan, call this in. Get them to trace whoever sent those messages, okay? I want to know if they can figure out where it came from."

"It's probably disposable," she says, but she grabs her phone anyway.

"John, I know it's hard for you to look at this. But I need you to, very carefully. There may be details in the background that could give us a hint as to where Sherlock is. In fact -" Lestrade glances around, then grabs the phone and walks into the other room. He goes straight over to Sherlock's laptop. John doesn't know the password, so he's relieved to see that when Lestrade lifts the cover the screen comes to life automatically, flashing into the muted desktop that Sherlock favours. Lestrade opens a webpage and fiddles around with the phone. In less than a minute, the picture has been displayed on the laptop's screen.

John's stomach hurts, like someone punched him, and he doesn't need to remember everything about being a doctor to know that Sherlock is being worked over very thoroughly. He has to force his eyes away from the bruised and cut flesh, focusing instead on the rest of the photo. It's a higher resolution than he was expecting, the image surprisingly crisp now that it's not contained on a tiny screen, and he sees the wall behind Sherlock's body and recognizes it as some kind of wood. Building materials, perhaps? He steps closer, squinting, and finally indicates a spot on the screen to the lower right. Half-hidden by Sherlock's waist, he thinks he sees - 

"Is that a bag of concrete?" he says.

Lestrade puts his face right up against the screen. "Yeah, I think so," he says after a moment. "Maybe he's being kept in a place where they're doing construction. There're loads of those all over London, though." He scrutinizes the spot closely. "I can make out the first three letters of the company. Just let me do a search." He takes out his phone.

Donovan is still in the kitchen, speaking quietly into her phone, and now that Lestrade is occupied with his it leaves John feeling out of sorts. He's not used to phones. The most contact he gets with them, for the most part, is when Sherlock asks him to retrieve his. He rubs his hands together, deliberately not looking back at the screen. The image of Sherlock is burned into his mind now, he doesn't need to look. It makes him want to use what he found in the bedroom: the weight of the gun tucked into the back of his waistband feels good. It's a heavy, solid weight, he can't help but know it's there. He likes thinking about putting a bullet between Moriarty's eyes. 

"No go," Donovan reports as she strides into the room. "They could tell it came from a disposable phone, and that means there's no point in trying to trace it. Whoever sent those messages through will have tossed it by now."

"I might have something," says Lestrade. "I found the company's website. It looks like they only deal with a handful of contractors around the city." He sits back, looks up at them with a grim smile. "If I can get the list of names, we'll have a list of places to start looking."


	36. Chapter 36

By the time they narrow down the list of places to just one, Lestrade has given up on trying to convince John to stay behind where it's safe. His repeated protests of "it's against the law for us to have a civilian there, John, really" go ignored, as John sits staring out the window of his office with a grim look on his face. Regardless of whether or not Lestrade gives him permission he is going, and eventually Lestrade appears to realize that because he throws his hands up and mutters something about Sherlockian levels of stubbornness before he grabs the keys to the car. Bottom line is, it's ultimately safer for John to be with Lestrade even in an unofficial capacity and they both know it.

The building turns out to look suspiciously nice, the exact opposite of what John's been picturing. It actually looks something like an office building. There's a revolving door and a doorman and a steady stream of people dressed in suits who are going in, as though it's any other weekday morning and they're headed for work. John looks up at the building and tries to imagine what Sherlock is doing inside. Gathering information? Trying to catch someone's attention? Figuring out the possibility of an escape? He wonders how many of the sharply dressed people are actually working for Moriarty, if any of them are innocent or if they're all in on Moriarty's sick games. 

"What's the plan, sir?" Donovan says. They're parked about a block away and she's got out of her car to come join them, huddling in the back seat with a steaming cup of coffee. She sounds tired but alert, bordering on an adrenaline rush. John doesn't have the heart to comment on how much she sounds like Sherlock right before an exciting case. "We've got the building surrounded and they're waiting on your word, but we've got to be careful about this. There's a lot of civilians in that building and we can't really narrow where Holmes might be."

"Send them in," says Lestrade without hesitation. "Empty everyone out and do a full scale search. I want that place turned upside down if need be." 

Donovan lifts the radio to her mouth, but before she can say a word there is a sharp tapping on Lestrade's window. John jumps and grabs for the gun, Lestrade curses a blue streak and spills his coffee all over the place, Donovan stays quiet. He keeps swearing as he grabs for the window and rolls it down in sharp, jerky little motions. "Mycroft, what the _hell_ ," he says angrily, glaring at the man standing next to the car.

Mycroft Holmes gives him a pleasant smile back, looking for all the world like he just happened to be standing on the pavement at the exact time that they were there. His umbrella hangs loosely from his fingers. "Good morning, Detective Inspector," he says a shade too brightly. Without asking for permission he opens the car door and gets in behind Lestrade, and John doesn't have to look over his shoulder to know that Donovan has just frozen. Not because she is intimidated, but because there is another Holmes in her proximity and two is one more than any normal person can be expected to handle. 

"What the hell," Lestrade repeats, now glaring into the rear-view mirror. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question. John." Mycroft's gaze, cool and assessing, flip over to John. John stares back at him silently, not caring what Mycroft might read in his face or deduce from his body. In fact, he wants Mycroft to know that he's not leaving. Not without Sherlock.

"We're here to rescue Sherlock, since you didn't seem to be too keen on doing it yourself," says Lestrade, bristling. 

"Contrary to your belief, I do care that my brother has been kidnapped. It just so happens I have implemented a plan to get him back. One whose success depends on the three of you departing with the rest of your officers."

"We're not going anywhere," John says lowly, and by _we_ he means _me_. 

"I thought I gave you your walking papers," says Mycroft.

John's jaw tightens briefly. He can read the inherent threat there in that simple remark, the one that says Mycroft will not hesitate to detail the nature of the relationship between him and Sherlock to Lestrade and Donovan and maybe even the rest of the world if he doesn't back down, but he doesn't care. He can remember a time when he would have cared very much, when just being naked on the sofa while Lestrade was in the room was humiliating, but right now Mycroft can tell them whatever he likes and John will not leave. He's had his limit with people trying to dictate his actions and he's not going to back down, not this time.

"You did," he says, lifting his chin slightly. "Which is strange, considering that you were never the one I was affiliated with in the first place. But even if I had been, it wouldn't have mattered because that means you've no longer got a say in what I do."

Mycroft's eyes narrow slightly. It's pleasing to get a physical reaction from him. John tries not to bask in it as Lestrade says, "That's right. And furthermore, Mycroft, I don't really believe you when you say that you've come to rescue Sherlock back. If him being in Moriarty's hands furthers your little agenda in any way, I wouldn't put it past you to leave him there. I know what you're like." His hands tighten around the steering wheel and for a few tense moments the air fairly crackles with electricity as the two men glare at each other.

"I see," Mycroft says at last, each word carefully deliberate like a personal attack. "Not even at the risk of your job?"

To his credit, Lestrade does not hesitate. "I would rather be fired for knowing I made the right choice then keep my job for the possibility of making the wrong one," he shoots back. "You can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Holmes. Now get the fuck out of my car and stop interfering in police business, or I will place you under arrest." His tone makes it amply clear that he'd like nothing better, regardless of the fact that the arrest would be over-turned before it even began.

"Very well, but I must warn you that Moriarty is a formidable opponent. By choosing to interfere, you are putting the health and safety of this country at risk, not to mention the personal safety of my dear brother." With that parting shot, Mycroft opens the car door and slinks out, smooth and graceful, a move he's likely practiced a hundred times over. He shuts the door and walks away, blending easily into the crowd.

A heavy silence falls inside the car. John stares straight ahead, clenching his hand into a fist at the sheer nerve of the man. He would bet a lot of money that Mycroft hasn't really been searching for Sherlock at all, but had kept an eye on them and seen the opportunity to interfere. He says, "Now that that's over, are we ready?"

"John -"

He doesn't wait for Lestrade to finish that sentence. His departure is not nearly as graceful as Mycroft's and he slams the car door a lot harder, but he doesn't care. He strides across the street to the opposite side and starts for the office building. The doorman gives him a bland smile as he approaches. John looks away, up at the list of names, and feels his stomach tighten when he sees the names Moriarty & Moran. Embossed so casually, there for the world to see, and it's infuriating.

"I'm here for Moriarty & Moran," he says tightly.

"Have you got an appointment?"

"They're expecting me." Because he suspects that they probably are, the bastards. He heads inside, his trainers squeaking against the polished floor as he walks towards the lift. Lestrade catches up to him just as he steps inside, though Donovan is absent. John shoots him a questioning look.

"She's waiting," Lestrade mouths, glancing up at the buttons. At the fourth floor, the doors swing open.

And yes, this looks a lot more like what John was expecting. The room is large and barren, half-constructed and covered in the remains of debris. Partially built walls obscure their vision, preventing them from easily seeing whether or not anyone else is around. Lestrade holds out a hand to stop John from getting off first. He steps out cautiously, his foot stirring up dust, and only then does John follow. The lift doors close behind them and the room suddenly seems dark, even with a little bit of light coming in through the dirty windows.

There is a tense silence to the air that makes the hair on the back of John's neck prickle. He feels his breathing slow and calm as he turns to the right, automatically putting his back against Lestrade's so that no one can sneak up on them. The move brings a whole new area into view and, to his immediate left, he catches sight of several familiar-looking concrete bags stacked near the far wall. The sight gives him hope that perhaps they're not wrong, that maybe they have come to the right place.

Somewhere in the distance, someone laughs: hitch-pitched and grating and John shudders, sharp and all over. "Moriarty," he whispers, lips barely moving.

"Hello, Johnny." Moriarty steps out from behind one of the walls. He looks immaculate, as always, not a speck of dust to be seen. He wears a mocking smile as easily as the thousand pound suit. "And Detective Inspector Lestrade, fancy meeting you here. Have you come to play?"

"You're under arrest," says Lestrade.

Moriarty merely smiles wider. "I think not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know there won't be a new chapter next week, August 9th. I'll be too busy helping my parents move.


	37. Chapter 37

John shoots him.

He doesn't know where the automatic reaction comes from - well, he does now that he knows about Afghanistan, but it almost feels as though someone else is in control of his hand when he reaches around and grabs his gun. Time is moving slowly as he pulls it free and brings his arm up, steadying with his opposite hand, breathing calm and control as he squeezes the trigger once - twice - three times. The recoil is stronger than he's expecting and it knocks him backwards a step before he catches his balance; in retrospect, that movement, small as it is, likely saves his life.

The shocked look on Moriarty's face stays there as his body topples over, striking the ground as the room fills with the sound of several more shots. Burning hot pain opens up in John's ribs, just to the right of where his heart would be, and he knows that someone's aiming for kill shots. Beside him Lestrade shouts with pain and goes down, blood spreading rapidly across the leg of his trousers. John ducks down beside him and lifts his gun, shoots back in the general direction that the shots are coming from. He has no idea if he succeeds in hitting someone, but the fire ceases and he stops with two bullets left over. For a very long moment, the room falls into an eerie silence.

Then Lestrade lets out a groan. "Fucking hell, I knew someday I'd be shot because of Sherlock," he mutters, rolling over onto his side. He gropes at his leg, trying to staunch the flow. "Did you hit him, John? Is he dead?"

"I don't know," John says, though he'd aimed for Moriarty's head with an instinct he hadn't known he possessed. Bullet-proof vests can protect someone's chest, but a head is always open for target. He thinks he remembers seeing at least one bullet impact the bastard's head, but he can't be sure. He shifts uneasily, glancing around, because they're too open. "Can you move, d'you think?"

"Yeah, just let me -" Lestrade swears, soft and violent, when he tries to get up without help. John hovers over him worriedly, wishing he remembered more about his medical skills, and takes Lestrade's arm when its offered to him. As gently as possible, he pulls the man to his feet and puts the arm across his shoulders. His ribs shriek with pain at the additional weight. The bullet might not have hit him, not with the protective vest, but it feels as though the impact has at least severely bruised his ribs. He ignores it, but the handful of steps it takes to get them behind a concrete slab seems to take eons.

"Right, you stay here. I'm going to check to see if he's dead," says John, swiping a hand across his forehead to get rid of the beading sweat. He tries not to think about Sherlock, who is likely alone and defenceless, and what someone could do to him as revenge. "The others -"

"They'll have heard," says Lestrade. "I suspect you'll have reinforcements up here in less than two minutes."

That's a comfort, but two minutes is a long time. Cautiously, John pokes his head above the slab and looks in the direction of Moriarty. The body is still, unmoving, but he's too far away to tell what sort of damage has been done. Lestrade hisses at him to remain where he is, but John ignores him. It's a gamble, but he thinks that the men - man? - who was shooting at them is waiting for something. Nevertheless, he runs to the next cover as quickly as he can. He ducks behind it, waits, and then runs for the next one. The closer he gets the faster his heart pounds. He's dreamed about putting a bullet right between those smirking eyes for the last god knows how many days. 

Moriarty is laying on his back, head tilted slightly away from John and Lestrade. His eyes are wide open and dark, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. There is a neat hole in his forehead, not quite in the middle but just above his left eyebrow. A second one has clipped the lower portion of his right jaw, taking a fair portion of his face off. The third shot must have missed. A growing pool of blood surrounds him, soaking into John's trainers when he steps too close. He doesn't need to look at Moriarty's chest to know that it isn't moving, but he does anyway. He needs to be sure. He watches for at least a minute, mesmerized by the continuing stillness, before he realizes that something is wrong.

Back-up hasn't arrived. There's no question in his mind that the shots will have been heard, so what's holding them up? He backtracks to Lestrade as quickly as he dares, grunting as he crouches next to him. Lestrade has his scarf balled up and pressed against his leg. The bullet struck just above his knee, but although he's bleeding John doesn't think he's bleeding badly enough to have nicked an artery. Maybe not shooting to kill after all, then, because both of them would've been easy pickings. He presses the scarf down harder and takes off his own with only a small flash of regret for the clothing Sherlock had purchased; he binds Lestrade's scarf into place and sits back on his heels with a sigh.

"Moriarty's dead, but this isn't over," he says bluntly.

"Nothing can ever be that bloody simple, of course it can't." Lestrade attempts a smile, but it doesn't come out right. He's sweating, face pale with pain and fatigue, looking almost grey underneath the poor lights. "I'd ask if you think we should leave, only I already know the answer."

John looks at him apologetically. "I'm sorry. I can't leave without Sherlock."

"It's alright, John, I understand. Not much of a rescue attempt if we bow out before we even find him, is it?"

A small coil of tension in John's chest eases at the realization that Lestrade isn't going to insist that they leave or stay put until back up arrives. He says, "I think the man shooting at us was Moran. He's Moriarty's next in line. My guess is he has instructions to kill Sherlock if something went wrong." Because he doesn't believe that dying was on Moriarty's agenda. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. The look of surprise in those dark eyes is one of John's greatest triumphs: that in the end, he was not as predictable as Jim Moriarty believed.

"Then you should go find Sherlock," says Lestrade, lifting a hand when John starts to protest. "No, listen. Moriarty's not the kind of bloke that would fool around with this. If he gave orders for Sherlock to be killed, I'm guessing that they'll be followed. Leave me here. I'll be fine. Go help Sherlock."

"But..." Even though he desperately wants to leave, John still hesitates. It doesn't feel right to leave Lestrade here on his own, especially when he's been wounded.

" _Go_ ," Lestrade says firmly. 

"Alright. Just... be careful." John stands, hunched over slightly, and gives him one last glance before he turns and begins heading deeper into the structure. The further he goes, the more he realizes that the room isn't quite as open as he'd originally thought. Towards the back, the lack of proper lighting means that shadows cover a good portion of everything and create deep spaces to hide within. He moves slow, eyes straining to see.

He emerges into a new room through a rough doorway that's low enough he has to duck and twice as wide as normal. He doesn't take more than a handful of steps before the overhead lights flash on, so bright that he has to fight the instinct to clasp a hand to his eyes, keeps his gun up instead. There's a screeching sound behind him and his stomach tightens as a metal door hits the ground, blocking off the doorway he's just come through. Trapped, the word whispers through him, and he turns slowly already anticipating what he's going to see.

"Hello, John," says Moran casually. The man stands beside Sherlock, looking just the way he did when John saw him last, only this time he has a gun pressed firmly against Sherlock's temple. For his part Sherlock is hanging limply in the chains, his head lolling against his chest. "This is a surprise, isn't it?"

"I guess it was for you," John says, refusing to look too closely at Sherlock. Not wanting to know the damage that's been done. "Or at least, that's what I assume the look on Moriarty's face meant when I shot him."

Something ugly flickers over Moran's face. The muscles in his arm tense and then release as he nudges the barrel of the gun a little bit closer to Sherlock, until Sherlock's head rolls from the force of it. "You think you're so fucking smart just because you're a pet," he says. 

"Better than being a toy." It's not what John means to say, but as soon as it comes out and he sees Moran's eyes widen he knows he's struck a blow. He still remembers that horrifying day, that casual conversation between Moriarty and Sherlock as they discussed his future, and he gives himself a few seconds to wonder how things might have been different if Sherlock hadn't cared enough to keep him. To save him. Because as fucked up as Sherlock Holmes is, he's got nothing on Jim Moriarty.

Moran is breathing heavily. "I'm going to fucking kill him."

"Go ahead." John's hand is remarkably steady as he lifts the gun, aiming at Moran's head. His aim was off with Moriarty, but he won't make that mistake this time around. He targets the middle of Moran's goddamn forehead, exhaling slowly through the jolt of terror. "But you won't make it out of the building alive if you do."


	38. Chapter 38

There's a tense few seconds that stretch into almost a full minute during which Moran says nothing. His shoulders are heaving, grip on the gun perilously tight, and he doesn't move it away from where it's been targeted. John stares at him evenly, willing Moran to understand that he's not joking. And finally, Moran says, "Why?"

"Why what?" John counters.

"Why would you bother? They kidnapped you off of the street, turned you into some fucking pet, took away everything about that matters. Why would you care if he lives or dies?"

John can't hide his surprise. "I suppose I could ask you the same question."

"Oh really?" Moran says with a laugh. "So Holmes forced you to kill and torture for him, did he? You've got a sheet with Scotland Yard that's so long it overloads their computers every time someone tries to bring it up? Forgive me if I don't think that's quite true, considering that you walked in here with an officer. You can go back to a life, Watson. I don't have that opportunity. Scotland Yard would be a walk in the park after this one's brother is done with me." He prods Sherlock sharply his elbow. 

It almost sounds like Moran is trying to illicit sympathy. If that's the case, it's not going to work because John doesn't feel bad for him in the slightest. He'd been there, he'd watched the expression on Moran's face when it came to killing or torturing. The bastard _enjoyed_ it in a way that John knows for a fact he never could even if Sherlock had chosen to follow that road. He might be a little fucked up right now, but no amount of conditioning is enough for that to ever interest him. Moran is a sick son of a bitch, and more than likely he was like that long before Moriarty ever stumbled across him. 

He can't resist pointing that out. "You liked it, what you did."

Moran shakes his head. "Right, yeah, of course I did," he says, and it's difficult to tell whether or not he's being sarcastic. However, there's no mistaking the fury that gleams in his eyes or the angry flush rising across his cheekbones. "Should've guessed that even you wouldn't understand. You've had a fucking cushy life with an owner that actually cared about whether or not you come home at night. Guess Holmes really does treat you like a pet -"

One simple squeeze of the trigger is all it takes. Moran's so involved in ranting that he doesn't even notice. The bullet hits Moran in the right shoulder and he shouts, the gun falling from his hand when his fingers automatically spasm with the pain and shock of impact. John doesn't hesitate; he shoots him again, right in the middle of the forehead, not even bothering to try and aim for his chest. Moran topples over backwards and hits the floor silently with a heavy sound. For a moment, John remains where he is. His gun stays transfixed on Moran, waiting for any signs of life. But as the seconds tick by and the body fails to move, he finally dares to walk closer. 

Blood is spreading around Moran's body, creating a disturbing plateau as it seeps around his fallen gun. John turns away and tucks the gun into his waistband, not wanting to look any longer. He gazes at Sherlock instead, fear and panic swiftly replacing the cool calm that had enabled him to shoot someone so easily. Sherlock does not look well. He hasn't responded to the sound of the gun shots. His eyes are half open, but when John cradles his head and tips his chin up they're glazed and unfocused. Up close, his whole body is liberally covered in a variety of darkening bruises and swelling and bright red lines, some of which go far deeper than John wants to think about. He's shivering even though he's hot and dry to the touch, and John's throat closes. He has to swallow several times before his mouth is moistened enough for words to come through.

"Help!" he shouts over his shoulder before he stops to think about whether or not advertising their location is an intelligent move. He releases Sherlock's head, easing it back down against his chest, and grabs for the chains. He doesn't want to know how long Sherlock has been strung up here, what kind of damage that might have done. His fingers are shaking almost too bad to unlatch the absurdly simple clasps.

"John!" Donovan's in the room before he recognizes the sound of her voice, and even as it sinks in he's spinning around with the gun in his hand, stepping protectively in front of Sherlock. She draws up short and extends her hands to show that she means no harm. There's bruising on her left cheek, extending down her jaw, but otherwise she looks fine. "John, it's me. It's okay. You know me."

"What took you so long?" he says without moving the gun.

"Moriarty had some unexpected guards lying in wait for us," she explains. "We had to take care of them without risking any of the civilians who were trying to escape without getting caught in the crossfire." She dares to edge a step closer and her eyes widen a little when she catches sight of Sherlock. "Good lord. John, come on. You've got to let us help him. He needs to go to the hospital right now. Put the gun away, okay? I promise you, Lestrade's right outside and he was the one who asked me to come in here when we heard you shouting. There you go, that's alright - I'm not going to take it away from you, it's okay." 

She's telling the truth, she doesn't try to take the gun from him even when she gets close enough to do it, but she does put her hand on his wrist and gently push it down until it hangs limply at his side. It seems to be some sort of signal because suddenly the room is flooding with people, men and women dressed in police uniforms and - more importantly - paramedics that immediately rush over to Sherlock. They finish unhooking the chains and lower him gently to the ground before clustering around.

"Come on, John," Donovan says. "Let's give them some room to work, okay?"

"Sherlock -"

"You can ride to the hospital along with him, okay? But right now you just need to let them do their jobs." She places a hand on his shoulder and starts steering him from the room, putting her weight behind it when he tries to protest. Realizing that she is not going to give up, John gives in and silently follows her into the outer room.

It looks completely different now that it's been filled with light. Moriarty's body is still where John left it, only now Mycroft Holmes is leaning over him. John stops walking and waits, entirely unsurprised when Mycroft straightens and fixes him with a disapproving look. "I hope you understand that some very valuable information has been lost to us forever."

"I don't care," John says honestly, because he really doesn't. His top priority has always been Sherlock's safety, and damn the consequences. He doubts very much that Moriarty would have ever shared anything worthwhile, anyway, and at least this way he can be sure the bastard won't come back.

"I'm sure you don't," Mycroft says with a faint twist of his mouth, umbrella tapping gently against the ground. His eyes flick pointedly towards Donovan, and she looks back and forth between the two of them before moving out of earshot with a frown. Only once she's gone does Mycroft continue. "You've done well, John. Your skills as a soldier were beneficial to my brother after all, just as I knew they would be. Giving you a gun turned out to be one of my more well thought out plans, I must say."

John's hand goes instinctively to the gun. He'd assumed it was Sherlock's, but evidently he'd been wrong. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Mycroft chuckles. "Come now, I know you were awake at the hospital."

And just like that, remnants of that mostly forgotten conversation flood through him. Sleeping cradled in Sherlock's arms, he'd listened to the two of them discuss his future and Sherlock's level of care for him while feeling like it was nothing more than a dream. He goes cold. "You wanted Sherlock to take me along on cases. You said that you thought I'd be good protection for him."

"Correct, and it seems that I was right. Though I do wish that you had left fewer casualties behind." Mycroft gives a pointed glance at the corpse on the floor.

The urge to start laughing catches John by surprise. Less surprising is the desire to put a bullet between Mycroft's eyes, regardless of the fact that the room is filled with police officers and government officials. He can't stand here and discuss this anymore, not now - hopefully not ever. He turns, putting his back to Mycroft, and walks away. He can feel Mycroft watching him as he heads over to where a couple of paramedics are strapping Lestrade down, but mercifully Mycroft makes no attempt to follow. 

"You alright?" Lestrade asks as soon as John is close enough to hear. Though his pupils are dilated from whatever pain medication he's been given, he's not too strung out to stop glaring at Mycroft. "What did he say to you, John?"

"Nothing," John says with a sigh, figuring that there is no point in bothering to explain. He puts a hand to his head and rubs it gingerly, hoping to massage away the headache building. It doesn't work. "The paramedics are with Sherlock now. I'm going to the hospital with him."

"Good. That's good. You look -" he cuts himself off with a pained grunt when they start to move, the paramedics wheeling him carefully out of the room and towards the lift. Donovan moves to follow after one last concerned look at John. "Stay with him, John!"

"I will," John calls back, watching as the lift doors close. When he turns around, Mycroft is gone like he was never there, and a man in a black suit is carefully draping a white sheet over Moriarty's body. He wraps his arms across his stomach and shivers, suddenly feeling chilled.


	39. Chapter 39

The hospital ends up being the same one at which John was sent to before, when he was recuperating after Moriarty. He does go with Sherlock in the ambulance, but the doctors quickly take over when they arrive and John is ushered aside. As soon as Sherlock is wheeled away from him it's like he becomes invisible: the eyes of the staff slide right past him and none of them seem to want to respond to any of his questions. Even the nurse seated at the information desk suddenly becomes preoccupied with a phone call when he approaches, and she refuses to hang up until he gives up and steps away. He ends up sitting in a small waiting room, staring off into space while he waits for some form of news.

He's not sure how long he's been sitting there for when a sudden beeping makes him jump. For a few seconds he looks around wildly, half expecting Moriarty or Moran to jump out from behind one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, before it dawns on him that it's his phone. He takes it out of his pocket and looks at the screen. The number is unfamiliar, the name written above it less so, and he knows that unless he answers he'll only be plagued with repeated calls. Sighing, he holds it to his ear. "Hello?"

"John!" Harry's voice is loud and jarring and makes him flinch. "Where the hell are you? I've been trying to get through to you for ages. I thought maybe you'd gone and disappeared again." She's trying to sound light-hearted, but there is an undercurrent of genuine worry running through her voice that makes him feel just a little bit guilty.

"Sorry, I guess I was in an area where there wasn't any cell reception," he says, and thank god for that because a ringing phone could've easily given his position away and got him shot. 

"A likely story. I bet you were with that girl, weren't you?"

He pauses for only a second before saying, "Actually, yes. I was." Because that's not really a lie, is it? He did spend most of the last two days with Donovan. Granted, it's not at all like Harry is thinking but then he can't exactly tell her the truth either. He might not know much about his sister, but he suspects that she won't take kindly to the news that he was working with the police to rescue Sherlock from a psychopath. John barely understands it himself. 

"You sly dog," Harry says triumphantly, the last bit of ire fading away in the wake of her pleasure of being right. "I knew it was a good idea for you to go to that bar with me. You guys must have really hit it off for you to be so preoccupied. Do you think I'll be able to meet her?"

"I don't know. Probably not." He only stops to think about how that might come across after it's already out, and he finds himself hastily adding, "I mean, I've only just found out she has a boyfriend. They'd broken up for a little while because he cheated on her, and she was just looking for someone to have a little bit of fun with... but now it looks like they're going to get back together, so... There's not really any room for me." And okay, that's it: he's definitely been spending too much time watching daytime telly.

"That sucks, but at least you had a chance to have some fun. Nothing wrong with a tumble between the sheets when a gorgeous woman is involved."

"Yeah, right. Listen, Harry, can I call you back later? It's just, I'm at the hospital and -"

"You're _what_? Why?"

"It's not me, it's one of my friends. I'll call you back, alright?" He hangs up before she can respond, deliberately switching the phone off this time so that if she calls back it will go to voicemail. His headache is growing and listening to Harry talk about how much fun it is to have sex with women is not going to help. He rubs at his temples in the hopes of lessening the pressure, but it does little to help. All he can think about is Sherlock and how bloody pale the man looked in the ambulance, like there was no life left in him at all. He hadn't needed to remember everything about being a doctor to know that the way the paramedics glanced at each other did not bode well.

What will he do if something happens to Sherlock, if it turns out the man doesn't survive? The thought is enough to make fresh sweat break out across his forehead, but he can't stop himself from thinking about it. The past few days have shown him that he is not ideally suited to living with his sister, that's for sure. He has the feeling that any life without Sherlock would feel boring and grey, and yet he knows that he's not supposed to feel that way. By all counts, he should've been pleased to leave Sherlock behind for good. After all, the man had kidnapped him and treated him like he was a pet to be trained. God knows how long it would've lasted if Moriarty hadn't stuck his nose into everything.

And yet, in spite of the fact that everything in him rebels against it, he knows he actually liked some parts of what Sherlock did. It was comforting, in a way, to know what was expected of him. There are some things he doesn't like - the threat of discipline, or when Sherlock takes things too far - but for the most part it worked. For god's sake, stripping as soon as he walks into the flat has become a second nature! He actually misses his rug, misses being able to curl up in front of the piping hot fire or being able to lean against the man's leg and sleep while Sherlock worked on his computer or on a case. And yes, alright, the way Sherlock manhandles him into and during sex is exquisitely hot. Even if he didn't want all that at first, he wants it now.

He can't just sit here and contemplate that he might not have it anymore. Restless, he gets up and wanders the corridors until he comes across a coffee machine. He's got just enough coin in his pocket to buy a cup, and it's while he's waiting for the cup to fill that he hears a familiar voice calling his name. Donovan strides over to him, looking like a mess. The front of her shirt is covered and blood and John blanches because he hasn't given much thought to Lestrade at all, and suddenly it occurs to him that he could die just as easily as Sherlock: there's no telling with gunshot wounds, they can be tricky, and wouldn't that just be the ultimate end to Moriarty's sick game?

"Lestrade -" he starts.

Donovan looks puzzled until she glances down at her shirt. Understanding flashes across her face and she shakes her head. "He's fine, John. They've got him in surgery right now, but last I heard the damage wasn't too serious."

"Thank god." He grabs for his coffee when the machine beeps, needing something hot and soothing after the day they've had.

"Are you alright?" Donovan asks, watching him gulp it down. She looks concerned. "I know what you did. Lestrade gave me a brief summary of what happened before they gave him something to make him sleep. He said you shot Moriarty, and I know you shot Moran. That's got to be hard on the head of any man."

John gives her a weak grin. The coffee tastes like sludge, but it's better than nothing. "I just did what I had to do," he says, swallowing another mouthful. "I just - he had a gun on Sherlock, and I couldn't let him..." He pauses and gives her a closer look. "Are you taking my statement? Because I can start at the beginning if you want."

"No. I will have to take your statement at some point, but..." She studies him for a moment before shaking her head again. "No offence, but I'm pretty sure you're in a mild state of shock. I don't know that anything I get from you right now will be all that trustworthy. You'd do yourself a favour to sit down, because honestly you look like you're going to fall down."

"I have been sitting. I need to stand." He finishes the last of the coffee and shoots a mournful glance at the machine. Before he can stop her, Donovan's digging through her pockets and coming up with a handful of coin. Ignoring his protests, she feeds a couple of them into the machine and presses the button for more. She gives him the first cup that goes through and then gets a second one for herself. He sips at it and makes a face when he realizes that she added sugar to it. Donovan smirks at him.

"The sugar's good for you," she says. "Drink it."

It's too sweet by far but he does as she says, drinking it a little more slowly than the first cup. He hates to admit it but she's right, he doesn't feel nearly so shaky by the time it's gone. "Are you sticking around?" he asks, tossing the crumpled cup into the nearest bin.

"I'd like to, but this whole situation is a mess. I expect it'll be taken over by Holmes, but I'd like to get my two cents in while we can." She bins her own cup. "John, will you call me if there's any change?"

"Of course."

"Not just about Lestrade. The freak too."

John raises an eyebrow. "I thought you hated him?"

"I do, but if he's not around what annoying little sod will drive me spare at crimes scenes?" She winks at him and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be no update next week, Friday the 6th, as I'm starting a new job and will be too busy.


	40. Chapter 40

John's ashamed to admit that it takes him almost three hours after the coffee with Donovan to even think about contacting Mrs Hudson , and even then the only reason it even occurs to him is because he glances up automatically at the sound of footsteps coming in his direction. He wants to see one of those familiar white coats approaching, but only if the doctor it belongs to comes bearing good news. Instead, he sees Mrs Hudson making her way into the waiting room. For a moment, John just sits there and stares at her, too surprised by her appearance to think of doing much else. It's only when she gets close enough that he can smell the scent of freshly baked biscuits and tea that he jolts into action.

"Mrs Hudson!" he exclaims, jumping to his feet. At some point, he doesn't really remember when, he'd got tired of pacing and wandered back into the room and sat down in the uncomfortable chair again. His back aches sharply as he straightens up and takes a step towards her. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to make sure that Sherlock is alright," says Mrs Hudson, as though the reason why she's there should be perfectly obvious. "And to check on you, dear. That lovely sergeant who always works with Sherlock came to see me and mentioned that the two of you had been through something dreadful. She seemed to think that you could use a bit of care." Her eyes move over John in a way that is painfully reminiscent of Sherlock. "I came as quickly as I could. I just had to wait to take my last batch of biscuits out."

John stares at her lovely face and feels more than a bit helpless. He can see the strain, how she looks so much older than she did the last time he saw her. It's faint, but there's still a bruise spanning the right side of her forehead from where she'd got an awful crack from the Spider, and it makes his protective instincts surge. He doesn't even know what happened to the Spider, but he hopes to god that Mycroft or Lestrade tracked down the bloke down and did him in. He realizes that she's staring at him, waiting patiently for a response, and gathers himself enough to say, "I'm fine, Mrs Hudson. Thank you for coming, though. Sherlock's still in surgery. I'm afraid I haven't really heard anything concrete yet."

"Yes, you look fine," she says, a note of poorly concealed sarcasm in her voice. "Sit down, John."

It's actually the last thing that he wants to do now that he's standing, but there's a steely gleam in her gaze that has his knees bending involuntarily. She sits down beside him, apparently not minding that the chairs are hard plastic, and reaches over to pat his knee soothingly. "It will be alright. Sherlock has come through situations far worse than this. After all, now he has something to come back to, doesn't he?"

The way she smiles makes John feel even worse. "I'm sorry," he blurts out. "I should've come to see how you were doing after Sherlock went missing. I know that the Spider attacked you, and I didn't even visit the hospital - I should've called or texted, at the very least -"

Mrs Hudson sighs and keeps patting his knee. "It was a bit lonely, dear, I won't deny that. However, I understand what it can be like to try and stand up to that awful brother of Sherlock's. He noses around all the time and sometimes it's all Sherlock can do to brush him off, never mind you. Being what you are, dear... I could hardly expect you to be capable of it."

John twitches at the implication that he can't stand up to Mycroft Holmes. Because he has, hasn't he? He'd thrown Mycroft's stupid plans back in his face, damn the consequences, or maybe he's just played exactly into what Mycroft wants: fuck it all, he doesn't know anymore. He closes his eyes wearily. "I remember," he says quietly, "that the first time I met you, you told me to give in to Sherlock. You said that things would be easier that way." And to this day, he's not sure whether that's true or not. What would his life have been like if he'd fought harder and not given in? If he'd taken his opportunity to run, to tell Lestrade the truth about Sherlock, to start a new life with Harry?

"Yes, I did."

"Why did you tell me that? You must have known how wrong it was."

"Of course I did," Mrs Hudson says plainly. "But Sherlock's broken several laws since I've known him, John. I hardly think a few more mattered." She surveys his desolate face and smiles kindly. "John, love, the first time I saw you, you were just so broken. I could've helped you escape, yes, but why? You would've gone back to the streets and Sherlock would've fallen in even deeper with that awful man. Aren't you happier now?"

John stares at her. His throat is so dry he has a hard time forcing the words out. “So… you think I should be happy about this. About Sherlock. What he’s done to me.”

“That’s a decision that only you can make, dear. I consider myself to be an impartial observer, and to me it seems that you are far happier now than you were when you were on the streets. You’re a strong man, John, and you would’ve found some way to fight back if you truly didn't want this. Sherlock has his flaws, don’t get me wrong, but he’s trying. He’s trying more for you than he ever has for anyone else. Isn’t that worth something?”

“I…” John is speechless.

Mrs Hudson’s smile widens just a little, and she takes her hand away from his knee. “When you’re around Sherlock, you tend to stop worrying about what’s proper,” she says quietly. Her gaze is steady. “I spent years with my husband because I didn’t think it would look right for me to divorce him. Even though I could’ve gone to the police at any time and had him arrested for what he did to me, I didn’t. It’s not right, when I grew up, and people would have talked, so I stayed with him until Sherlock found out what was going on. Now, looking back, I wish I’d cared less about what everyone else thought. I wasted several years of my life. Don’t make the same mistake that I did.”

Any words that John can think of seem to be painfully inadequate in light of what Mrs Hudson’s just shared. He’s always wondered what drew her, a respectable older woman, to a man like Sherlock in the first place. The truth is far worse than anything he could have contemplated. How could someone hurt Mrs Hudson? She’s the sweetest, kindest person that John has ever met. No wonder even Sherlock had been compelled to help her. Looking at her gentle face, he wonders what Sherlock did to her husband. He hopes it hurt.

“Mr Watson?”

John jumps at the sound of the doctor’s voice, realizing that he was so distracted by what Mrs Hudson had been telling him that he’d stopped paying attention to their surroundings. Amazing. He rises quickly, ignoring the fresh spike of pain from his back, and says, “Yes. That’s me. Do you – is Sherlock…”

“I’m Dr Murphy. I was told that you were my patient’s husband? And that you were the one to talk to in regards to his health?”

Did Mycroft tell her that? Probably doing a poor job of concealing his surprise, John shakes the offered hand. “Yes, I – that’s me.”

“Mr Holmes came through the surgery quite well,” she says. “He escaped without any internal bleeding, fortunately, though there was some damage to his kidneys and liver. He had several broken fingers, a couple of broken ribs, and two broken toes on his right foot, as well as massive amounts of bruising. There are several deep stab wounds that required extensive stitches, though remarkably none of those wounds hit anything vital. How he survived the blood loss, I’m not sure.” Her expression registers disapproval. “He also has quite a severe concussion. It looks as though he might have been whipped repeatedly with something hard. Needless to say, he’s going to be kept here at least overnight to make sure that no blood shows up in his urine. Depending on how he does over the next day or so will determine whether or not he is allowed to go home. I'd like to keep him here for at least a week, possibly longer.”

“Did you…” He glances at Mrs Hudson before dropping his voice. “There was no… sexual assault, was there?” Because this, he can’t imagine: Sherlock would be destroyed, their rescue too late, if Moriarty had chosen to inflict _that_ on him.

“No. At the request of Mr Mycroft Holmes, a thorough examination was done and we did not find any evidence of that sort of trauma,” Dr Murphy says reassuringly. “And considering the extent of the other injuries, I believe it’s safe to assume that there would be trauma.”

A heavy weight slides from John’s shoulders, and he’s just barely aware of Mrs Hudson rising to her feet and gripping his arm to hold him steady. “Can we see him?” she asks.

“Mr Watson, you may for a few minutes. I’m afraid that anyone else will have to wait until he’s moved to a different room.”

“Go ahead,” Mrs Hudson says, giving John’s arm a squeeze. “Perhaps while you’re gone, I’ll go see what’s happening with that lovely detective inspector.”

“They haven’t told anyone anything yet, I don’t think.”

Mrs Hudson winks at him. “Oh dear, when you’re my age you learn a few tricks about getting information from people. Go with the nice doctor, now, and see to your husband.” Her mouth twitches a bit at that and John feels his cheeks flush. She grins wider and steps away, moving down the hall. The doctor beckons John in the opposite direction, towards the intensive care.

“Now this may be a bit of a shock,” she says as they get closer. “Mr Holmes has been sedated and he’s hooked up to several machines. Don’t panic. They’re all designed to help him in some way.”

It’s on the tip of John’s tongue to scold her for the patronizing tone she’s adopted, but that thought vanishes when he catches sight of Sherlock. If possible, the man looks even worse than he did before. His body is heavily bandaged, and what flesh is still visible has turned varying shades of blue, purple and black. The doctor wasn’t lying, either: there are so many machines surrounding him that it’s sickening. Dr Murphy sees him in and then walks away, leaving John to stumble over to the chair that’s been pulled up beside Sherlock’s bed. He sinks down into it numbly, staring at Sherlock’s closed eyes, paralyzed by the realization that all he can do is wait.


	41. Chapter 41

His neck has a crick in it from the awkward angle he’s slumped forward in, but that’s not what wakes him out of a surprisingly restful sleep. A whispered conversation is taking place above him, one that he’s probably not meant to participate in. He shifts slightly, squirming as the muscles throb in protest from stress and too much worry, and goes still only warm fingers splay possessively across his upper back, palm pressed to his neck to keep him down. The heat helps, but it’s better when the fingertips dig into the muscle and seek out the tension. 

“You were being foolish, Sherlock.” Mycroft, if he is aware that John is conscious, does not care enough to stop his chastisement. His younger brother is awake but trapped in a hospital bed, and he is clearly planning to take full advantage of it. “Your antics ended up wasting government money and got Lestrade shot. You're fortunate that there will be no lasting damage and that he will fully recuperate. Why would you allow the Spider to take you?”

“I did not _allow_ him to take me, Mycroft,” comes the cold response. “Much as I am loathe to admit it, I wasn’t expecting the Spider to show up at the flat. He surprised me.”

“Slipping in your old age, then? Or perhaps you are becoming too complacent in your affections towards others, and you allowed that caring to become an obstacle.” The heat of Mycroft’s stare can be easily felt on John’s back. He tries not to flinch.

Sherlock bristles, and it’s only then that John realizes he’s leaned far enough across the bed that his head is resting on Sherlock’s thigh. No wonder he’d been sleeping so well. The firm press of a hand keeps him down, and Sherlock says, “I made one mistake, and beyond that it’s none of your business. Leave John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade out of this, they had no part in what happened with Moriarty. I know that you already manipulated John extensively and it stops here, understand? He is not one of your little idiots.”

“I allowed you to keep him as long as –”

“ _Enough_.” Sherlock’s voice rings with icy command and John shivers. “You will not touch John, Mycroft.”

There is a long pause and John gets the feeling that the two brothers are staring each other down, locked in a silent battle of wills. After at least a minute, one of the chairs in the rooms gets pushed back and there is the quiet sound of footsteps crossing towards the door. It’s unlike Mycroft to depart without at least a parting comment, but this time he does: the door shuts and Sherlock sighs.

The determined pressure of his fingers, bordering on painful, eases and becomes a light stroking. Like petting, John thinks, and curls into it. He opens his eyes and cranes his head a bit so he can see Sherlock’s face. Sherlock isn’t looking at him, he’s gazing at the door with an unfocused look that suggests he’s not really seeing it. He still looks dreadful, the bruising and swelling somehow having got worse while John was sleeping, but he’s awake and breathing and alive. A warm swoop of relief makes John feel a little dizzy.

“Are you alright?” he asks quietly, hating to break the silence but knowing that Sherlock will dawdle in his mind palace until someone calls him back. 

Sherlock blinks, startled, and glances down at him. “I’m fine. No lasting damage done, or so they tell me. I could have told them that. Moriarty is nothing if not inventive when it comes to playing. He used to go through toys so often that he had to develop ways of playing that weren’t permanent, just to keep people from noticing how many people were disappearing.”

It’s an idle comment, but John can’t let it go. “You know that was wrong, right?” he says, regretfully pushing himself up a little to look Sherlock in the eyes. “You can’t just… do that to people, Sherlock. No one can. You might be smarter than the rest of us, but that doesn’t give you or Moriarty the right to kidnap people and make them into whatever you like.” Though he suspects it makes him a little hypocritical, the fact that he’s grateful Moriarty had enough practice to leave Sherlock relatively unharmed.

“Moriarty’s dead, John. I suspect it doesn’t really make much difference whether it was wrong or not.”

“That’s… well yes, technically that’s true, but I was also including you in that fact.”

The hand on John’s neck finally slips away, leaving him bereft. “Do you want to leave?”

Sherlock has never asked him that before. John swallows and says tonelessly, “Mycroft already made me leave. When you were kidnapped. He told me that you wouldn’t have need of me anymore and implied that you were never coming back. He gave me my file and dropped me at my sister’s house.”

Fury brightens Sherlock’s eyes, chasing away lingering shadows. “Bastard,” he hisses. “I wanted to be the one to figure you out! And he just went ahead and gave you your file?”

John stares at him for several seconds, speechless. Before he can stop it, he starts to laugh. Softly at first, his shoulders shaking, before he gives in and throws his head back in a fit of giggles. It's relief doing it, he knows, relief that Lestrade and Sherlock are both okay, but he can't stop. Sherlock watches him, perplexed, before smiling reluctantly. It’s a couple of minutes before he can calm down, swiping at the tears of mirth that have formed in the corners of his eyes. “That’s really what you’re mad at?” he asks, straightening the rest of the way. “I just told you that Mycroft tried to send me away.”

“I am more than angry at Mycroft for his interference,” says Sherlock. “You slept through most of our conversation, after all." He studies John briefly. “But in the end he did you a favour, did he not? You came back of your own free will.”

His heart turns over with a particularly hard thump. “Sherlock…”

“You could have left, John. I wouldn’t have been here to stop you. By the time I woke up, you could’ve been safely ensconced into another life with friends and family. People would’ve missed your disappearance this time. But you didn’t. You chose to isolate yourself, staying in the flat with the telly all day and not getting along with your sister, so that it would be easy for you to leave again. You don’t like her much, do you? And you suffered, not knowing what to do with yourself, you _missed_ me.” Sherlock raises a knowing eyebrow. 

“I…” John trails off, not sure what sort of excuse can be offered in the face of that smirk. “I was… worried about you, that’s all. I know what Moriarty was capable of. He could’ve killed you. I just didn’t want to see you end up dead.”

“Really.” Sherlock’s smirk grows. “So are you going to leave again?”

John wants to say yes – no, he thinks he should say yes. Not that it really makes a difference, as he doubts that Sherlock would allow him to leave even if he wanted to. Sherlock would have no problem in forcing him to stay. But saying no, that means he’s accepting this. He’s agreeing to be Sherlock’s for the rest of his life, to be completely taken into this bizarre life with this strange man that makes his blood rush. No more fighting beyond the odd token protest, because in the end he’ll give this man _everything_.

He swallows again, throat dry, and Sherlock must sense his hesitation but for once he remains silent. It’s not hard to guess why; Sherlock likes the fact that John matches him terms of stubbornness but he fears the morning he wakes up to find John has escaped. Those long evenings spent locked up in the flat were taxing for both of them and, in spite of how they had come to a tentative agreement for a little while, nothing has truly been decided. They can’t go on like that forever. 

No, this has to be John’s choice so he has no one to lay the blame on. He won’t be able to say that anyone tricked him into it or kidnapped him. He stares at Sherlock’s face while he tries to think about what he wants, but really is there even anything to consider anymore? He’d been miserable without Sherlock. Even had he known that Sherlock was safe at 221b, he would’ve felt the same way: like he was adrift in a world where no one had need of him. Sherlock needs him. John knows that now, can feel it in the way that Sherlock’s hand trembles from suppressing the desire to reach out to him.

“You’re an idiot,” John says finally, wearily. “Really, you are. You live your life like no one matters to you, but that’s not quite true. You care a lot more than you want to admit. All this time you’ve been acting like a little kid who’s been given a puppy for the first time, trying to hold on too tightly.”

Sherlock’s mouth deepens into a scowl. “John –”

John cuts him off. “I’m not leaving. For some reason I can’t really fathom we seem to fit, you and I. I’ve seen my old life, what’s left of it, and to be perfectly honest it's fucking boring. But I can’t – you’ve got to treat me like a person, Sherlock. I’m not a pet. I’m definitely not a toy. I might be yours, but I want to be able to have a say and I need you to actually listen. There are some things I like or don’t mind and we can discuss the other things later, but if I really don’t want something to happen you have to be willing to back off and respect that.”

“Those are your terms?”

“Yes.”

His hand shoots out, sliding around the back of John’s head and dragging him up onto the bed and closer. “Agreed,” he breathes against John’s lips, pulling him into a passionate kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the incredibly lovely response to this story. It turned out to be much longer than I wanted it to be - I hate when plot ends up sneaking into my porn. But it warms my heart to know that there are people out there who enjoy just the sort of things I do! You all keep me writing, you wonderful people.


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